


Daisy Nukem and Astroboy

by UndeadSpacewalker



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Awkwardness, Canon-Typical Violence, Embedded Audio, Eventual Smut, Gen, Grumpy!Daryl, Humor, I Keep Adding Tags, Internalized Homophobia, Language, M/M, Oblivious, Pre-Slash, Season 1, Sex Is Not The Enemy, Slow Build, Techie!Glenn, Zombies, but they think it is, cuz they're a couple of dumbos, when will the madness end??, who am I kidding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:03:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 40,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndeadSpacewalker/pseuds/UndeadSpacewalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glenn frowned miserably. "If only... if only--"</p><p>"If only a bullfrog had wings he wouldn't bump 'is ass when he jumps. You said your piece, now I'm givin mine." He ran a hand through his hair distractedly. "I mean Jesus, kid. You're wastin daylight pickin fly shit outa pepper. Can't never could. Now I know you're stubborn enough to argue with a wall and win, so..." he held out his hand and hauled Glenn to his feet, "put it to good use for once.</p><p>"It's time to get the fuck up, calm the fuck down, pull your ass off your shoulders, paint it white 'n run with the antelope."</p><p> <i>[OR: Daryl and Glenn become "friends" and go on a roadtrip for science.]</i></p><p>  <b>Now with <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1938732">fan art</a> by the badass <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/kai_152/pseuds/kai_152">kai_152</a><br/></b><br/>(spoilers for chapters 11, 14 and 16)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Superstition

**Author's Note:**

> Extent of AU: Glenn is a bit of a techie and working on secret-awesome-useful projects. Plot itself diverges when the group is NOT attacked upon the return of Merle's search party, and therefore never go to the CDC, Hershel's farm, etc.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Daryl's lone wolf mojo is threatened and Glenn can't seem to get a break.
> 
> Guest Appearance: Imaginary!Stevie Wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic. Ever.
> 
> o_o
> 
> There are so many lovely fics here (!) that I was inspired to attempt one of my own.

Blurry, kaleidoscopic patterns inched tentatively along the ground as early morning sun filtered through the forest canopy. The light show was accompanied by its usual soundtrack. Trees whispered the meaning of inanimate life in sub rosa colloquies as local wildlife underwent circadian reanimation. Unflappable birds opened their act with an habitual trilling chorus. All were unaffected, unconcerned and uncomprehending of the fact that human undead had been walking the earth for sixty cycles of this moment.

Self-awareness began to infuse the scene, touching the sun and the trees and the wind, observing and redefining. After a short time, another joined it, then another. They fed off each other and expanded, coalescing, permeating the area.

Glenn zipped up his tent with a cracking yawn, squishing down sleep-crazed hair as he put on his hat. Scratching his forehead with the base of the brim, he let his gaze wander over the camp. Dale had just crested the RV for morning watch, floppy hat and rifle in tow. Amy&Andrea were moving listlessly around the fire pit, preparing-to-prepare for breakfast, which didn't amount to much. His stomach gurgled fitfully and he was relieved to see Carol join them, taking charge and providing direction in her soft spoken way.

Others were sporadically emerging and congregating, shaking off sleep. Just another day in the apocalypse.

He hesitated and sat down on a tree stump as he debated joining them. Normally this wouldn't belong in the category of 'up for debate', but his frustration had been mounting over the past few days. He had twisted his ankle ( _not_ sprained, thanks) a week and a half ago during a supply run. He'd always preferred solo runs, but ever since they returned empty handed from the search for Merle, Daryl had made a habit of tagging along with anyone going into the city, on the ever-shrinking off-chance of stumbling across his brother's trail.

In this case, Glenn was willing to thank any force in the universe that cared to take responsibility for _that._

For the most part, the run had been uneventful. Except for sympathetic disappointment at no sign of Merle, it had been pretty much ideal in his opinion. In and out, packs bulging with the spoils of a good scavenge, encountering only two walkers that both went down without much protest. Before heading back though, there were a few things left on his personal list to be grabbed. It took a bit of ratiocinative persuasion _("It's no big deal, really, I'll be fine... Please?")_ until the grumbling redneck had gone ahead to get the Land Rover (that Glenn had the foresight to hotwire for the occasion) while he made a quick stop at RadioShack, agreeing to meet at the intersection on the far side of the strip mall.

Some of it was cleaned out, with the battery section predictably stripped bare, but there was a surprising amount of stuff left. He supposed the majority of people wouldn't know what to do with it. It took a little time scrounging through the mess, but he managed to find most of what he needed: not one, but _three_ 6V solar panels, AA/A and 6V battery holders, A-to-A USB extension cable, blocking diode, E-10 lamp base, switch, soldering iron tip and a large spool of solder.

It was like Christmas.

Happily, he tossed them into his backpack, along with a small project box as an afterthought. Only as he was giving the shelves a cursory skim for electrical tape (everyone wanted tape) did he hear it: a low, growling snuffle. He turned to see a walker slowly emerging from behind the checkout desk, its stained uniform polo sporting a name tag that read STEVEN.

A brief, crazed vision flashed through his head of Steven, Undead Employee of the Month, rasping out a polite how-can-I-help-you.

"Found everything I needed, thanks," he offered in appeasement as Stevie Walker began to patiently shuffle across the room. Soon accompanied by a fellow coworker who had also been chilling behind the counter and a customer who had been lurking behind the phone display.

Probably time to go.

He spun around and dashed out the front door, Stevie Wonder's Superstition starting to play in his mind's ear as Stevie Walker calmly crashed through the front window in slow-burning pursuit.

His feet pounded the pavement to the rhythm of the beat in his chest and the music in his head. Somehow a mini-herd was now on his heels and growing as passersby opted to join the hunt. So much for an easy run. If he didn't know any better he'd swear he jinxed himself.

Abruptly he tightened the straps of his backpack, strafing to the right. Stevie wailed about devils and daydreams, the walkers moaning in harmony, as he scaled a drain pipe to the roof of the strip mall. It appeared to be walker free and he wasted no time, sprinting and jumping across the multilevel rooftop, the raw sun beating down and adding an aching throb to the rhythm in his brain.

The edge came sooner than expected and he lurched to a halt, arms pinwheeling as he tried to prevent himself from _running off the fucking building._ He could see the Rover in the street, could barely make out Daryl's face turning in his direction. Even if he survived, he'd never live it down. Just as he reached equilibrium, he looked down and nearly lost it again.

It was a straight forty foot drop.

Or was it? The first fifteen feet or so of the wall had a design carved into it that looked deep enough for handholds. Roughly ten feet below that was one of those big name signs, forming a ledge. There was a closed dumpster on the ground. He heard a shuffling sound from somewhere behind and there was no more time to think. Closing his eyes, he spun, grabbed the edge and lowered himself down, feet kicking and scrambling for purchase.

They found it and he descended, Stevie having a congratulatory jam on his guitar as Glenn tried to tell himself that this was just like being on a wall at the climbing gym, just a game. Then he ran out of wall-design and forced himself to drop to the sign. It was unable to support his weight and the far end broke off the wall with an alarming scrape, the whole thing swinging down. Helpless, he slid along it, down and out, finally slipping off the edge with impossibly wide eyes. The dumpster flew up to meet him and he yelped, rebounding from the impact and somehow managing to curl his neck and right shoulder before hitting the ground, rolling three times before finally, mercifully, coming to a stop.

He lay there for a few seconds, sprawled spread-eagle on his back, gasping for breath as his heart pounded furiously. Forcing himself to get up, he cast wildly about for his backpack before spotting it beside the dumpster. He gazed up as he slipped it over his shoulders, marveling at what the hell had just happened. Besides general soreness, he wasn't even seriously hurt.

A deafening honk caused his whole body to flinch. He looked. The Rover was still there and Daryl was scowling and shit, where did all those walkers come from? He headed immediately for the street, running through the weeds that used to be called landscaping, mulch kicking up under his feet. Daryl was staring at him and he met his gaze with a relieved grin, stepping diagonally off the curb, rolling his ankle. He was so taken by surprise that he fell over like a rag doll, bounced his head off the concrete, and promptly passed out.

It was hours later back at camp when he awoke, mortified to learn that after _all that_ he had somehow managed to knock himself the fuck out _twenty feet from safety_ to an audience of 20+ walkers and one chronically unamused redneck. Daryl had apparently done his usual thing, killing a bunch of stuff and saving his ass. He'd never know exactly how close of a call it was because of the redneck's habitual understating of his own heroics, but Daryl had pretty low standards of personal danger and he was being even more churlish than normal. All in all, bit not good.

On the positive side (which Glenn preferred), his brains were not leaking out of his head and his leg had not fallen off. In fact, he wasn't concussed and his ankle was barely swollen. It could have — and if he'd gone solo, would have — gone down much, much worse.

The group had been terribly understanding about it and for a few days he actually enjoyed the fussing. But it had been almost two weeks since then. Two weeks of not being allowed to go on supply runs _("You can't run")_ , not being allowed to go on watch _("You can't climb up or down"),_ not being allowed to watch the kids _("You can't go after them when they wander or help them if they get hurt"),_ not allowed to do laundry _("How will you get to the quarry?")._

Barely allowed to pick his nose or wipe his butt.

At first it was nice, then it was annoying, then it was irritating. Now? Now it was bordering on insulting. His ankle was fine but everyone was still treating him as if he were an invalid. No, more than that, an invalid child.

The only one who hadn't was Daryl.

To be fair, he hadn't said or done anything at all really.

Sure, Glenn noticed a few disapproving frowns if someone happened to be coddling him within a ten foot radius, but that wasn't often. Mostly the man kept to himself, heading into the woods for days at a time and returning with piles of miscellaneous dead animals. These would be dumped silently by the fire pit before he retreated back to his tiny separate camp that was set further back into the woods. He would head out with Shane or Rick for supply runs. Sometimes he would watch them around the fire at night from afar.

Wasn't he _bored?_ Glenn wondered what exactly happened during these hunting trips of his. Maybe... Hm.

The sounds and smells of the here and now flooded in as he returned back to the present and rapidly blinked away his memories. He rose from the stump stiffly and unzipped his tent, waist and up disappearing inside before popping out a few minutes later, along with his backpack. After double checking its contents, he zipped both pack and tent shut and walked resolutely past the fire pit, past the RV, past the slew of tents and made his way to Daryl's camp, pointedly ignoring the curious looks being sent his direction.

Last night he had overhead Carol mention offhandedly that they were getting low on meat, within Daryl's hearing range. This was intentional, of course, and all involved knew he'd head out for more in the morning.

Glenn was relieved to see he had gotten there in time, as Daryl was sitting beside his personal smaller fire pit, still finishing preparations. Crossbow appeared cleaned and oiled, the nearby whetstone indicating freshly sharpened knives. He watched as the older man took a bite of jerky meat before folding the rest into a cloth that disappeared into the pack. A swig of water was taken from a canteen before quickly following the jerky. Knife into sheath, check.

Glenn shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, uncertainty gripping him now that it was time to verbalize his presence. Hands slipped into pockets, chin tucked down imperceptibly.

"Hey, Daryl."

The man grunted without looking up.

Glenn shifted again. Fidgeting fingers plucked at loose threads, absently unravelling his pockets, an action he would regret when he realized it later.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

Daryl stood and smoothly slung both pack and crossbow over his shoulder before turning away and heading toward the treeline.

"Fixin to go huntin," he tossed over his shoulder, statement clearly intended to be both his first and last in this exchange.

"Mind if I join you?"

That pulled him up short. Glancing back at the Asian from the corner of his eye, Daryl snorted derisively. "Kid, you'd be bout as useful as tits on a tree."

Mild amusement bloomed involuntarily within him as Glenn's face contorted in a volley between umbrage, bewilderment and mild disgust. Almost-smirking, Daryl leaned his left side against the nearest tree, crossing his bare arms over his chest.

"Sides, thought you was layin up today."

That made the kid bristle. "My ankle is fine. It wasn't even a real sprain and it's been weeks! I offered to keep watch, babysit, even the laundry! It's driving me crazy sitting on my butt all day. I'm totally healed now!"

The reply was a single raised eyebrow.

"Seriously, look!" he demanded, voice raising, and proceeded to stomp the dirt vehemently with his recently injured leg which, to be honest, didn't feel like sunshine and roses.

Daryl scowled and was by his side in three strides, grabbing a handful of his collar and hoisting him up just enough to take the pressure off his ankle. Glenn found himself stomping (confusingly) on nothing at all before the other man was suddenly dragging him unceremoniously down the path to the woods. Startled, he let loose a yip that carried worryingly in the clear morning air.

"Th'fuck, Asia," Daryl groused, shaking him slightly. "It's the bleedin asscrack o' dawn, shut your mouth unless you're plannin on turnin camp into a walker B&B."

"Let me go!"

Daryl sighed inwardly and allowed Glenn to wriggle out of his grasp, frowning as the kid stalked carelessly into the forest ahead of him. "An' don't go off with your pistol half cocked, you'll sulk straight into a walker."

"I am not sulking!"

This reply was paired with one of the sulkiest faces Daryl had ever seen.

He was not impressed.

* * *

_Let us come together before we're annihilated._ — Stevie Wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice anything funky or have a suggestion, please share!
> 
> I have a good chunk written after this that needs serious polishing, maybe a bit of sanding here or there, and a couple gangrenous bits to snip off, but it should be presentable soon :)


	2. Stare at the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Daryl attempts to pass on his ancient knowledge of the crossbow and Glenn has an existential crisis.
> 
> Guest Appearance: Token!Evil Squirrel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of angst in this one. I'm not a huge fan of angst but it IS the apocalypse. Best to rip the scab off clean and get it over with, eh?
> 
> No song, this is the lone silent chapter **kicks at passing tumbleweed**

"Damn, you really couldn't hit the broadside of a barn," Daryl muttered, looking exactly the wrong kind of impressed as he went to retrieve the bolt. "From the inside." He stooped to pick it up, studied it in his hand as he walked back. "With the doors closed."

Glenn grinned, lowering the crossbow. "Let me try again! But I'm going to load it this time."

"Kid, I don' think—"

But Glenn was ignoring him, bent over with the nose of the crossbow in the dirt as he struggled to cock it delicately, without slicing an arm off. He had been astounded earlier to learn that the Horton Scout HD 125 was a large youth crossbow, a _kid's_ crossbow. Daryl had explained that before the outbreak he used a rifle to hunt large game, never bothering to get a larger crossbow because the size and weight of the Scout was an advantage at short range. Also, disconcertingly enough, the only reason it worked on walkers was because of their abysmal bone density. Even point blank, the bolts would seriously struggle to pierce a non-infected skull.

It made sense he supposed, and explained why the man never brought back anything larger than a woodchuck.

It also made him desperately _need_ to be able to cock it without help.

"Geez," he huffed, "this is like a hundred pounds."

"Draw weight's 125 actually," came a gruff sound by his ear.

He tilted his head to see Daryl sitting on his haunches, monitoring his technique with blatant amusement.

He sniffed airily, "Shoo fly," and strained with the cord, unwilling to invest full strength or grip in case it went snapping back down.

"You jus' lemme know."

The bastard was downright smug. Glenn petulantly glowered at his hands for a moment before accepting the fact that without calluses or experience, he would continue being excessively cautious and this would end up taking him all day.

He nodded wordlessly without looking up. Daryl reached around him and two seconds later the bow was back in his hands, fully primed. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw in determination, facing the squirrel he was attempting to bring down. His last shot had been so wildly inaccurate the dirty little rat hadn't even flinched. Before today he would never have imagined it was possible to be taunted by a squirrel.

Hefting the bow and squinting down the sight, he clicked off the safety and lined up the red dot over that little stinking furry body. This should be easy, it wasn't even moving. Pausing for a moment to steady his aim, he waited until the dot was dead center, held his breath and pulled the trigger as hard and fast as he could.

There was a pop followed by a loud crack. Instead of toppling to the forest floor as he had hoped, the squirrel chattered angrily and scampered up the tree. There was a creaking sound. He cursed under his breath before slowly lifting his eyes in time to see a precariously hanging dead limb breaking completely off with a groan, his bolt innocently jutting from the side.

He had only enough time to think _**figures**_ before he was on the ground with a rotten wood blanket.

Two hands from above freed him from the debris and blue eyes gazed down, squinting with reticent good humor.

He avoided them and made no move to get up. It was like Atlanta all over again. Hot anger and embarrassment burrowed into him, not in the form of a stabbing flame but an oozing magma, viscid and adhesive, twin rivers like black tar. This whole world was _wrong_ and there was no single person or thing to blame.

He settled for glaring his outrage into the apathetic blue sky.

"Stop lazin about, Chinaman. Up you git, now. But this time—"

"I'm _KOREAN_ , inbreed," Glenn bit out, harsher than intended. "And _this_ is a waste of time."

Daryl took a step back, crows feet smoothing out, eyes turned wary. Glenn immediately nipped the rapidly blooming bud of guilt.

"I know what y'are, man. Ain't no slow leak. What's got your panties 'n a twist?"

"I don't wear panties."

The other man just watched him, expression unreadable.

"It's really not important. Doesn't matter."

Daryl waited.

Glenn could have sworn that goddamn-rabid-mangy squirrel snickered in the background.

He exhaled harshly through his nose. "It's just... You're sort of in your element now. All this survivalist, backwoods bullshit. Don't misunderstand, it's awesome. I'm glad it's your forté because it's saved my scrawny butt. _You've_ saved my butt, which, thanks by the way. Very much. But..." he pursed his lips, "I was going to go back to school for computer science, or maybe electrical engineering. Brainwork, puzzles, those are _my_ forté. Not throwing stuff really far and picking up heavy shit and stabbing things in faces. The old world was where I excelled, it was _my_ world. And it's dead... I don't know what I'm doing here, who I am."

Daryl just listened, a breathing statue. Glenn's cheeks were burning, but he'd always struggled with logorrhea. Too late to stop now.

"I've been picking up components whenever I can for a few projects. Just got the final parts for solar powered battery and USB chargers. But I need to zone in to make them, tunnel vision, you know? That's what I do. Usually end up with some cool shit afterwards. By the way, if you find me a webcam, decent laser pointer, and a C# reference book I can probably make a laser rangefinder for your crossbow. We both know your little red-dot scope sucks.

"Of course..." he visibly deflated, feeling very sorry for himself, "with my luck, I'd probably get a bite in the ass halfway through. If only I had time and space to _think_ , if only I wasn't such a klutz that I needed to rely on these things. If only... shit, if only none of this had ever happened..."

He was stuck in a groove now, frowning miserably, eyes glazing over. "If only... if only—"

_"If only a bullfrog had wings he wouldn't bump 'is ass when he jumps."_

Glenn came back to the present with a snap, gaping up at the man whose presence he'd almost forgotten.

"You said your piece, now I'm givin mine," Daryl said forcefully, running a distracted hand through his hair. "I mean Jesus kid, you're wastin daylight pickin fly shit outta pepper. Can't never could. Now I know you're stubborn enough to argue with a wall and win, so..." he held out his hand and hauled Glenn to his feet, "put it to good use for once. It's time to get the fuck up, calm the fuck down, pull your ass off your shoulders, paint it white 'n run with the antelope."

Daryl drew himself up to full height, hands on hips, staring Glenn down with an intense and daring look in his eyes.

Dramatic silence reigned.

Glenn, for his part, blinked. Several thoughts crossed his mind at once.

First and foremost was that even considering current events, this would probably remain the epitomical WTF moment of his life. 

Second was the absurd mental image of Daryl — wearing only a fluffy white tail and the skin his mama gave him — bounding across a meadow with a herd of antelope. This caused the part of his brain conjuring the image to immediately overload, short circuit, and reroute him to the next thought.

No self-respecting northerner would blather on about frogs, fly poop, and antelope during a pep-talk. What the hell did that even _mean?_ It was barely English. Then the man had struck a noble pose and was _still_ just _standing_ there, expectantly. Fidgeting more and looking less sure of himself with each passing moment. Eyes slowly sliding to the side.

Glenn decided to stop thinking and grinned instead.

"I don't suppose you have any paint?" he asked, feeling a nervous babble coming on. "Bird poop would probably work too but, you know, I'd rather not if it's all the same to you. Hey, have you ever seen the movie Naked Prey with Cornel Wilde?"

Daryl had the nerve to look at him as if _he_ was the crazy one.

"Here's what you need t'know," the man drawled, completely ignoring him. "What y'did wrong was jerkin the trigger. You can't think of aimin 'n firin as two separate actions, cuz you can't focus on the target when you're suddenly yankin on the damn thing. Even if y'had it right on the dot, it'll slip off innat split second. You gotta think of it as aimin-n-firin, a single continuous, flowin thing. Called the shot sequence."

Glenn nodded, slightly awed.

"Now it takes bout five pounds a pressure to activate th' trigger," Daryl continued, growing more animated as he warmed to his subject. "So you wanna squeeze that reeaal slow 'n steady, like a cat eatin a grindstone. Nice 'n gradual. For you now, accurate shot sequence oughtn't be less'n ten seconds. I want you to pull soo slow," he dragged the words out for effect, letting them roll out over his tongue, "that you lose track o' the pressure an piss y'self in surprise when that bolt flies."

"Heck, I can do that no problem!"

"...I've no doubt."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you guys know, the title will eventually make sense :]
> 
> Also, as a yankee, no offense intended towards southerners.
> 
> Alsoalso, I most definitely did not in any way gigglesnicker every time I wrote the word cock. Hey, it's not my fault. We all know archers are a dirty bunch.


	3. Attic Static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn is overconfident and Daryl does not approve.
> 
> Guest Appearance: Therapy!Walker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit more AU here; I stole a scene from later in the season. The setting was too good to resist :)
> 
> Short as usual, but next chapter up tomorrow.

Glenn followed Daryl through the woods, cheerfully swinging the dead squirrel by its tail.

He had not, in fact, soiled himself upon firing. But it had been a near thing.

The redneck had been both helpful and unhelpful at the same time. After waiting about twenty minutes for the squirrel to return to its original perch (refusing to pick a new target out of principle), Glenn had clicked off the safety, lined up the shot and gently squeezed the trigger as instructed.

Then unpredictably, Daryl was right there in his space breathing things like "steady" and "lil more" right down his friggin ear and possibly trying to peer down the scope with him to check his aim. It was all very distracting. He sort of wished he could turn his head to see exactly what what the man was doing, verify his distance, but couldn't risk breaking focus.

Maybe this wasn't as strange as it seemed. Maybe rednecks were similar to military men, with time spent roughing it in the field desensitizing them to worries about petty things like personal space. Mollified, he pushed the entire thing from his mind and replaced it with a red dot, a target, and his own heartbeat.

"Easy now," he felt in his ear, warm and a little damp. He could feel a mild burn on his face, could feel the ghost of pressure and warmth down his left side, could:

**_//POP//_ **

_"Gah-shit-fuh!"_

Daryl — the bastard — just stepped coolly forward and away to retrieve the dead animal.

"Damn, lil man. This'n got rigor mortis fore it hit the ground. Nice shot."

'Bastard' may have been a bit strong to describe someone who clearly had good judgment. And who smelled pretty decent for being so filthy, but that was irrelevant. Relevant was the fact he had bagged The Squirrel. It didn't seem too far-fetched to say he was a full-fledged hunter now.

Challenge accepted and steamrolled.

Despite this, by unspoken agreement, the remainder of the day would be spent in lessons of observation. He was proud of his accomplishments but had no illusions. One squirrel was barely half a meal and they'd spent most of the afternoon to get it.

A bird warbled an unfamiliar call from the left. Glenn squinted curiously in that direction, hoping to catch a glimpse, and (because this was his life) walked straight into Daryl's prone form. The man shot him a dirty look but didn't seem all that surprised, so it lacked venom. He also didn't move. Instead, he ignored the boy standing on his ankles and resumed his pose, head perfectly still and cocked slightly to the right. 

"Sorry," Glenn murmured and stepped back. He held his breath, trying halfheartedly to pick up whatever it was that had caught Daryl's attention.

For all he knew, the guy had heard a rabbit taking a shit a mile away. And now he was probably estimating the amount of droppings to determine if it was big enough to pursue. That sounded a bit crazy, but Daryl was a bit crazy, so who knew? Maybe he would ask about it later.

Sound identified, the scruffy statue came to life, looked at him. Put a finger to its lips, turned to the right, crouched, and stalked. There had been a no-nonsense look on his face, implying danger instead of food.

Great. Walkers. Or even worse, a bear.

Glenn reached back to pull out his baseball bat and followed as silently as he could. He winced as twigs snapped underfoot, feeling like a clumsy idiot stomping along and shouting, _'Hello, world! I TASTE DELICIOUS!'_ to every predator within a two mile radius. Usually he considered himself light on his feet, was even proud of the fact. Now though he was coming to the realization that it was much easier to walk quietly in an urban setting. Sneaking through a forest was worse than sneaking across a field of bubble wrap. It was impossible, couldn't be done.

Except that somehow Daryl was doing it. He was like a Native American from the history books. But no, that wasn't quite right. He was more like a panther, a cougar. A graceful, short-tempered, battle-scarred, Native American mountain lion.

Glenn felt a twinge of sympathy for the bear.

This was before he heard the distinctive growl of a not-bear. Thankfully, a singular growl. He tensed and looked to Daryl, surprised to see long limbs unfurling as he rose from his crouch and slung the Scout back. Daryl glanced at him mildly, raised both eyebrows, and strode casually through a patch of dense foliage towards... a cabin? He hurried after him.

Emerging and picking burrs off his clothing, he found himself in a clearing with only two immediate objects of interest. There was a small cabin and there was a walker hanging from a tree. There was a walker hanging from a tree. A walker... was hanging from... He mentally shook himself and approached, halting beside the other man.

Now there was a walker hanging from a tree right in front of him. It was male, hanging from the neck, gibbering and flailing in vain to reach them. He stared at it, agape, as Daryl leaned down to read a note tacked to the tree's trunk.

" _Got bit. Fever hit. World gone to shit. Might as well quit._ "

Ah. A suicide note. "Quite the wordsmith."

"Dumbass didn't know 'nough to shoot himself in the head. Turns 'imself inna swingin piece of bait." Daryl tilted his head back and studied the walker, musing. "An' a mess. Look at 'im. Hangin up there like a big pinata. The other geeks came'n ate all the flesh off 'is legs—"

But Glenn had stopped listening at the word 'pinata'. Unable to contain himself, he darted past Daryl and began happily beating on it as hard as he could.

"Come on asshole, where's my candy!"

The walker graurghled in indignation, swinging pathetically like a pendulum, ticking and tocking with each _thwack_ of the bat.

Glenn was enjoying himself immensely.

He reveled in how ridiculous this was, drunk off the cocktail of total safety and terrible danger like a teetotaler after his first beer. Adjusting his grip with eyes narrowed and tongue poking from between teeth, he tapped the dirt with the tip of the bat and wound up for a solid hit... only to find his hands disappointingly empty the second before he swung.

Daryl stood behind him, holding the bat which had been effortlessly plucked from the kid's grasp, and tried to process what he had just witnessed.

"Th'hell you think you're doin?" Damned if he hadn't said the same thing more times in the past couple weeks than in the past couple decades.

The kid scuffed at the dirt with his toes and gave him the stink eye. "Just having some fun."

"He ain't hurtin nobody up there. What, you goin beat 'im til 'e drops onna your empty head?"

The Asian's eyes widened and he spun around to check that the walker was still hanging securely from his perch.

Daryl rolled his eyes, a not-unaffectionate smirk twisting his lips. "Your lady swings ain't goin do shit, kid. Now come on."

He tossed the bat and turned, approaching the cabin. Knowing he would be followed.

* * *


	4. First and Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn is introduced to the art of hillbilly lawn ornamentation and Daryl's patience is tested.
> 
> Guest Appearance: none (there may be one in hiding)

A short segment of infrared radiation tore through the vacuum of space at 670,616,629 mph, ripping straight through the earth's atmosphere on it's unflinching trajectory. After 92,960,000 relentless miles, its pilgrimage was fulfilled. It was absorbed, its particles redistributing to feed its new host.

Afternoon sunshine flowed unhindered into the glade, a pleasant warmth on the back of Glenn's neck that he refused to enjoy while he fretted. 

He had turned his back for one minute — _one minute_ — and Daryl was gone. He figured the guy liked him to some degree (he let him use his _crossbow_ ) and wouldn't leave him in danger without good reason. But another, nastier part of him figured the hunter was like a sighthound, sensing something and taking off after it without a thought to anyone else.

Never mind about ol' Glenn, he'd be fine, _alone_ , in walker-and-bear-infested woods, with no provisions and a bat. He was resourceful. It wasn't like he couldn't scavenge anything useful from a gopher hole or run freely across the treetops if necessary. He was in his element. He'd be _fine_.

Though abundant, his sarcasm was a limited resource and dried up like the best wine at a party. The cheap stuff always goes down smoother after that and he felt himself slipping into hurt and anger. Because really, he hadn't expected this! What an asshole! They seemed to have been getting along decently. Damnit, he had trusted him.

Glenn was doing an admirable job of working himself into a real fit when he happened to notice the man in question lazily climbing the steps to the cabin.

...Oh.

Perhaps he'd gotten a bit carried away, it happened sometimes.

Giving his hat a quick tug, he sprinted the distance and cleared the porch stairs in one step. He reached the hunter's side, breathing easily, just as the man turned his head.

Daryl stood there, crossbow in one hand and doorknob in the other, and looked at him with a satisfied little smile. As if he had been expecting to see him there, as if he had just made a bet with himself and won. Glenn hefted his bat guiltily and nodded that he was ready. The redneck returned the nod, paused three seconds, and shoved the door open with a bang, bow held high and mushrooming with tension.

Nothing happened.

He cautiously entered, quickly checking each corner of the room. He checked behind the door, behind the curtains, under the bed, in the large trunk at its foot. Glenn searched for a closet (there wasn't one) before lifting the rug. He made eye contact when Daryl glanced his way, gesturing to the cellar door he'd discovered. Wordlessly, Daryl opened it. It gave a creaking groan and Glenn winced at the volume. Fishing a maglite from his backpack, he traded the bat with Daryl for a small knife and lowered himself down.

It didn't take long to explore. A few dirt steps dumped him into a tiny store room packed tightly with crates and sacks. He was forced into a crouch to fit and it smelled awful. Not the viscerally recognizable dead-person smell, but almost as nasty. He peeked into the closest bag, gagging as the ambrosial delight of decaying organic matter leaped out and smacked him in the face. Blegh. He puffed out his cheeks and held is breath as he scuttled back up the stairs. Daryl gently lowered the door behind him and handed back his bat.

"Anythin?"

"Nope, just rotten food, few rabbits. At least I think that's what they used to be. Rabbit-sized mammals."

He looked up and was met with a suspicious look.

"Y'sure."

"It's the size of a matchbox down there," he defended, kicking the moldy rug back into place. "And filled with crates and big bags. There's not enough square footage for something the size of a person to hide. And everything was so neat and organized. No way a walker's been down there."

Narrowed eyes held his gaze for a moment longer before the man grunted and walked outside without a word. Glenn rolled his eyes — that was starting to get seriously annoying — and hurried after him.

"Hey!"

To the left, he caught sight of a heel disappearing around the corner of the house. Thumbs tucking into pack straps, he jogged around to follow and found himself faceplanted on the ground with an aching shin. What the fu— no. You know what? This was normal. It took too much effort to be surprised anymore. Getting to his feet, feeling very old and world-weary, he brushed himself off absently and turned to see what he had wiped out over.

It was a toilet.

Glenn boggled.

The porcelain throne, mankind's social equalizer, was sitting beside the cabin in the crab grass, innocently as you please. A healthy bouquet of marigolds sprouted jauntily from the open lid. Glenn did a quick scan of the area, but didn't see any more marigolds. They didn't appear to be wild here. He looked back at the flowers growing in the toilet.

Pinata had been a weird ass dude.

"Short Round! Getcher ass over here."

He found Daryl behind the cabin, standing in front of a 6x4 patch of freshly (relative to the rest) overturned earth. There was a dilapidated outhouse near the treeline that had its own distinctive fragrance. Glenn wasn't sure if it was better or worse than the cellar and concluded that his poor nose was supersaturated with funk and temporarily offline.

"Bout time," Daryl said, shooting him a look that Glenn could have interpreted as accusatory. That didn't make any sense though, so he must have missed something.

"Looks like Pinata had a vegetable patch. Guess we should call him Farmer Joe instead," he attempted a light joke, which didn't come out funny at all.

Daryl continued to suck on his invisible lemon. "Stupid spot for it, shaded lee o' the house. No plants neither."

He shifted his stance and his eyes, as if looking for distraction from whatever had rubbed his fur the wrong way. Then he crouched down, ostensibly (Glenn assumed) searching for clues to this non-mystery in a giant random pile of dirt.

Glenn raised an eyebrow with an incredulous laugh and recklessly decided to voice this.

"Finding any clues to this non-mystery in the giant random pile of dirt?"

He was expecting the man to give him a languid yet scathing summary of why city boys should leave tracking to actual men. He didn't expect Daryl's head to snap up with a crazy face, closed-off hurt mutating to open-ended sneer in the blink of an eye. Glenn's laughter died and he watched in confusion as Daryl stomped away to continue securing the perimeter.

Well. He'd ask if it was that time of the month but he didn't really want his head ripped off.

He trailed after him, cautiously peering around the next corner. On this side of the clearing, a ten foot section of underbrush and trees was missing, forming a clear opening in the treeline. To Glenn's surprise, the ground sloped down at a serious angle into a...well, into a glen. It was parabolic, with the far side having a matching upward slope. The bottom of the shallow ravine had a thick carpet of mid length grasses, with a few trees scattered near a brook that ran lengthwise. It was very pretty. Judging from the fact that Daryl had firmly planted himself at the entrance, priming his bow and scanning the scene below, it was also a very good hunting spot.

Glenn wasn't sure what he should do, so he went with the first thing that came to mind and flopped down next to him, using his pack as a pillow and gazing up into the sky.

"This is a good spot," he said for the sake of speaking. "Do you think this is natural or cut down?"

Daryl grunted.

Okay then.

He closed his eyes, resigned to the other man's mood and allowed himself to enjoy the sunshine. Daryl was breathing quietly and steadily beside him and it occurred to him how rare peaceful moments like this were nowadays. Still boring as hell which he detested with every ounce of his being, of course. But who could say no to a catnap in a sunbeam?

Besides Pinata Joe.

He cracked an eye open at Daryl. "Hey did you see the toilet? I tripped over it."

Daryl bounced his gaze off him and latched onto the distance. "So."

Glenn opened the other eye and shifted up to lean on his elbow. "You did see it. Isn't that bizarre? It's just sitting there! And he specifically planted marigolds in it! Like it used to be inside and when it broke he thought to himself hmm... Chamber pot?... Flower pot!" 

He had enacted the scene more for his own benefit than Daryl's, scratching his chin in deepthought before brightening, twirling and stabbing the air with his index finger in the universal _ah-HA_ motion.

Unbeknownst to the others, one of the primary reasons he lasted so long by himself in Atlanta was his ability to keep himself company and entertain himself. Humor is a very encouraging emotion. This most recent imagined scenario cracked him up and he burst out laughing at his own joke.

"So."

Glenn forced himself to calm down. "What?"

"Howzat funny."

"It's, well it's..." How do you explain something like that? Way to ruin the joke. He sighed. "I've never seen that before. I've never seen an object like that so out of context before. A toilet is a pot you shit in, and he's using it as a lawn ornament with marigolds as the parallel to his poo. It's so... I don't know, it's funny."

He did not say, 'it's so white trash', which saved his life because next thing he knew:

"Had one in front when I's a kid. Only this'n had daisies."

He waited a moment to process.

"Wait, wait, when you were a kid... your family had a toilet in the front yard... with daisies planted in it?"

Daryl nodded stiffly. His face began to flush, reflecting the creeping realization that he had just made a grievous error.

Glenn didn't notice because he was laughing so hard. "Wait, wait!" he gasped, the most ridiculous thought ever coming to him. "In the summer, did you ever wear cutoff jeans? Classic redneck shorts, above the knee? Pleaseplease say yes."

Bewilderment and morbid curiosity flickered across Daryl's face. His eyes never left Glenn's as he hesitantly nodded.

_"How's it goin, Daisy Duke!"_

He exploded into an unattractive guffaw. Panicked birds shot out of overhanging limbs. A distant moose was startled. Daryl's jaw began to tick, his knuckles whitened, his face reddened with a different emotion.

It was around this time that Glenn's survival instincts decided it was time to break up the party and coughed pointedly in the back of his mind. He finally looked at Daryl — _really_ looked — and his stomach dropped to his feet.

"Did I say Daisy Duke? I meant Duke Nukem! Definitely meant Duke Nukem. Daisy Duke. That was, pfft... " he made the most scornful scoff he could physically attempt. "That's just— I mean that doesn't even make any _sense_."

Daryl was looking at him again, jaw still clenched and ticking, but face approaching a semi-normal shade, caught between amusement and white fury. A fat young coyote trotted merrily across the valley floor, pausing now and again to sniff a particularly exciting pile of scat. Neither human noticed.

"That's just stupid. No sense at all, psshh. Daisy Duke... Duke Nukem... But you did say they were daisies... It's too... "

He blinked owlishly, hoping against hope for compromise. "Daisy Nukem?"

Daryl emitted a strangled, enraged growl that frankly scared the bejesus out of him. Then the man stood and furiously stalked away into the forest.

Glenn guesstimated a 500% probability that he was not supposed to follow. With a sigh, he retreated into the cabin and hoped he would survive long enough to apologize.

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glenn irritates me in this one, but I wanted to stress how abysmal they are at reading each other. That way, each look and tone they learn over time is more meaningful. 
> 
> That's the idea at least :)
> 
> Did I mention this will be a slow build?


	5. Where Is My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn has a good thunk and Daryl is absent (presumably Being Angry and killing small animals).
> 
> Guest Appearance: none (erm?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm either an updating fiend or making the chapters too small. Pretty sure it's the latter. This one sets the stage for later so don't expect shenanigans/silly business. Seriousface required to proceed.
> 
> ಠ_ಠ

Sitting alone in a ramshackle cabin in the woods did not fill Glenn with cozy feelings of security and comfort.

It sucked ass. He was trapped like a rat. Who knew what his chances were if a walker (or six) overheard Piñata Joe's ramblings and decided to see what all the fuss was about? He lacked Daryl's unique sense of mercy and leaving him strung up seemed like begging for trouble. It made him uneasy. For a moment, he actually debated going out and finishing him right then. Then he pictured Daryl's reaction when he came back. What if he had calmed himself down? Seeing that could set him off again. Bad idea.

What Glenn needed to do was calm _himself_ down.

He dragged the ancient, wooden table to rest underneath the west-facing window (the direction Daryl had taken) and pulled up two chairs, one for him and one for his backpack. That nagged at the back of his brain for some reason. It bothered him.

Something was wrong with this cabin.

His back to the window, Glenn scanned the interior with a critical eye, trying to determine what was hidden in plain sight. Nothing seemed unusual... he was probably being parano—

It hit him. The chairs, the curtains, the bed. He went and yanked open one of the inconspicuous drawers built into the bedframe and confirmed his fears. They weren't drawers at all, it was a trundle bed. Piñata Joe had been a family man. That explained the suicide. But the man hadn't known about headshots, so where was his family now? Hairs prickled on the back of Glenn's neck, this was not good.

But there was nothing he could do at the moment, unwilling to explore outside unless Daryl had his back. He should be okay for now. The cellar was clear, the door was locked, the windows were too high for a child. The wife, though...

He cracked open the trunk at the foot of the bed and rummaged through it. Quilts, candles, dishes wrapped in course brown paper, odds and ends. He reached the bottom quickly and frowned. It looked deeper from the outside. He dumped everything out onto the floor and examined it. The wood grain was lighter on the base than the sides. He pulled at a groove in the corner and removed a thin sheet of wood.

What a cheery sight!

Grabbing the machete and rifle (only one box of bullets), he placed them on the table, feeling much better about the situation. 

Now to business. It wasn't often he had spare time, walls and a table and he wanted to get shit done. Opening his backpack, he laid everything out in front of him. It didn't leave him much elbow room but he could work with that.

The first task was to make a soldering iron. It was a very simple thing.

The basic design involved an old Altoid tin with two holes, one on the end and one on top. The case for his rechargeable NiMH 6 volt battery fit snugly inside. He screwed the soldering tip into the lamp base and inserted them both, with the tip exiting the first hole. Pushbutton switch was inserted through the top. What he really needed now was a working soldering iron for the wires but (since that was impossible for obvious reasons) he was going to have to jury rig it. Stripping a bit more off the ends of the wires, he twisted them together and used his precious electrical tape to keep them together as best he could. Then he popped in his (again, precious) battery, snapped it shut, and admired his handiwork. He gave the button an experimental press.

Well. It was a pitiful thing, unbelievably crappy, but it worked and it would hold together. At least until he could use it to make a better one. He didn't have the parts for another though, so for now it was time to scoot along to Task #2: USB charger. He lumped together the components, brandished his new tool, and got to work.

It may have seemed like a complete waste of time to others, but he had his reasons. One reason actually, and it was sitting right next to his left hand.

A smartphone. A dead smartphone. A dead smartphone containing the Wikipedia database, as well as a few thousand technical manuals and history books. A dead smartphone containing 64 GB of information (largest mini sd card he had at the time). The world had been falling apart so he had downloaded it, compressed it, and stored it in an old phone that he'd rooted and stripped for the occasion. Just in case, you know?

He worked a little faster and burned his finger.

  


* * *

  


Hours had passed, no way to be sure how many.

He watched, unable to breathe, as the boot sequence initiated, mind going blank with the sheer familiar joy of it. The home screen was right there, staring him down, seemed to say: _Okay, you got me. Here I am. Now what?_

Now what, indeed?

For most of the group, Primary Goal of Life v2.0 was to manipulate their immediate surroundings in order achieve a level of safety and security comparable to their pre-outbreak experiences. They showed limited motivation to learn about the current state of the world or the magnitude of what had happened. Resignation seemed the fashionable attitude, accepting what was and remaining firmly in the present, concerned only with survivalist tasks such as food and shelter.

He didn't know if they thought the answer to be unimportant, unattainable, or maybe too discouraging to face. Regardless, somehow, they were content to never ask why. Sure they'd be curious if it was gift wrapped and left in their tent, but otherwise it wasn't worth the risk.

Glenn could and would not accept that. It could be that they actually had better survival instincts than him, but this life was not worth living, this mind-numbing, animalistic existence.

His mind slid back to the global brain's frenzy before that terrifying cut of communication and was reminded of the words of Obi Wan: _I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened._

He couldn't be content. It was like a black hole in his head, this consuming absence; a lack of awareness, lack of information, lack of guidance. He missed the soothing balm of the digital ether, craved it. He needed proper perspective to be able to grapple with this mess. Macroscopic, holistic, the bird's-eye view.

Wait...

Bird's eye. Of course! Almost dropping the phone in his haste, he accessed the Wikipedia database and swiped in 'satellite imagery'.

Thirty minutes passed.

He stretched out with a _snap-crackle-pop_ and a sigh, blinking moisture back into his eyes. Glancing out of the window and taking a sip from his canteen, he closed out of the database and skimmed his notes:

> _Raleigh, NC ........... TerraServer_  
>  commercial website specializing in aerial and satellite imagery  
>  [USDA, USGS, DigitalGlobe]  
>  *w/ color IR imgs! 
> 
> _Longmont, CO ..... DigitalGlobe_  
>  commercial vendor of space imagery and geospatial content  
>  [NASA, DOD, NGA, Google] 
> 
> _Sioux Falls, SD .... U.S. Geological Survey (USGS)/Earth Resources Observation Science (EROS) Center_  
>  primary data capture facility for USGS Landsat archive  
>  *civilian remote sensing/sat ctrl  
> 

Already having narrowed it down to three, the inline perspective allowed him to instantly recognize the best option. Since the circumstances called for unauthorized access, common sense told him to avoid any place that sold their data for profit. The USGSEROS Center — acronyms gone wild — was a civilian research complex. It looked like most of their data and processing procedures had been freely offered to the public, open sourced. Other than precautions from generic vandalism, they probably had minimal security, physical or digital.

True, South Dakota was a light year and a few hundred-million walkers away. But it was also... He jumped back into the database for some quick statistics. It was also ranked 46 out of the 50 states by population, making up an estimated 0.26% of the entire US population. Georgia ranked 8 at 3.10%.

Heck even if not for the Uggzeross Center or whatever-it-was-called, South Dakota was way more conducive to longevity than Georgia. It had _10,000,000 fewer people_ than where they were right now. Then he found the population density table and his mind set into stone.

> _ US State .................. pop./mi 2  
>  Georgia ......................172.53  
>  South Dakota ..............10.86 _

Each square mile of land had an average potential of 160 fewer walkers. That was kind of _A LOT._

And if he managed get there? Maybe there were still people there, maybe it was even fully operational. But even if it was a dead place. If he got there and the dishes and antennas were still in one piece? If he could get some sort of generator going? If he could activate, access and operate their systems? He could literally see the world. It was an epic version of getting lost in the woods and climbing the tallest tree.

If he stayed diligent and learned the science, the system, he could find the small thriving communities that statistically must exit, follow highways and record all blockages and necessary detours. If he had access to infrared he could even track the herds, maybe study their weird 'migratory' patterns to see if they could be predicted. Walkers had a lower core temperature, so depending on the resolution and precision of the sensors, maybe he could even detect whether or not small, nomadic groups were undead or alive by their heat signatures.

He could see the extent of the damage in other counties, maybe even communicate with the centers overseas that shared data with this one.

His mind was flying, spinning, burning with delicious ideas. The whole thing made him feel revitalized and stronger than he had been a moment ago. It was so improbable. It was ludicrous. There were a hundred _ifs_. A thousand things could go wrong.

But...

Shadows slithered across the floor as Glenn's patch of earth turned away from the sun. He gazed out the window and waited for Daryl's return. Dusk was approaching, the sun a cosmic fingernail clipping discarded on the horizon. It was fiercely beautiful.

Glenn's view was watermarked, two words burned into his mind's eye.

_**Sioux Falls** _

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanciful plot (and no way his phone would be charged that fast with solar) but it's a story, alright?
> 
> Just roll with it and we'll all be okay :)


	6. Dead or in Serious Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn is a danger to himself and others and Daryl experiences this fact for the umpteenth time.
> 
> Guest Appearance: #!surprise!# (Why do I have this section?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay, college is kicking my ass this semester. Any and all mistakes/crackness are to be blamed on the glorious intoxicating effects of sleep deprivation.
> 
> Woohoooooooooo— [passes out under desk]

Darkness had fallen, still but never silent.

This time of year, the choral chirring of cicadas and katydids was a constant feature and the insects graciously shared their talents whether you liked it or not. After enough time, the listener invariably reached that special point at which the brain recognized the futility of irritation, resigned itself to the situation, and mercifully began to report the noise as soothing.

Barely ten minutes had passed since Glenn entered this soothing phase when the air was lanced by a sharp dissonance. His head snapped up and he jumped forward, nose pressed to the dirty windowpane.

Knowing that Daryl was more than capable of looking after himself did not syllogistically translate to peace of mind.

The nebulous shape creeping towards the cabin was a welcome sight. It drew nearer, gait too measured for a walker, and he quickly unchained and unbolted the front door, lifting the (mostly decorative) 2x4 as well. Throwing himself back into the chair, he adjusted the wick of a kerosene lamp as boots echoed on the porch and the door grouched open.

"You're back!" he exclaimed unnecessarily, and grinned.

Daryl was back all right, filthy from head to toe and dripping all over Piñata Joe's frowzy throw rug. Of course, this was barely noticed in favor of the thick line he was brandishing with pseudo-camouflaged self-satisfaction. The thick line which happened to be strung with an unlucky squirrel and all of its distant relations.

Glenn was too ravenous to be put off by the thought of yet  _more_  squirrel. He stared at the dead rodents covered in muck and gore and his salivary glands exploded like an old river dam going into retirement.

"You took your sweet time! I'm starving!"

"Tcha! I'd like t'see you—"

But Glenn was already outside, machete and lantern in hand as he circled around and approached the fire pit he'd noticed earlier. It was northeast of the cabin—bit too close to the outhouse as far as his nose was concerned—but there were plenty of split logs and kindling stacked nearby. He set the lantern down on a semi-level stump and started making a teepee of sticks.

"Jesus man, don' go runnin off like that!"

He glanced up from where he was crouched and made out a disgruntled looking Daryl in the dim lamp light. "Saw this fire pit and I'm starving, Daryl. Haven't really eaten for about two days. Skin the little guys and let's  _mangia!_  I'll start the fire," he added, with more confidence than he felt as he realized his matches were damp who-the-fuck-knew-why. He blew a gusty sigh—effectively collapsing the teepee—and then forced himself to take three diaphragmatic breaths.

Daryl had that contemplative, scornful look about him again. "This ain't no fire pit. It's a circle o'bricks'at ain't even a circle. N'good lord, quit embarrassin y'self, cityboy. I'll build the goddamn fire. Git outa the way."

Glenn was literally pushed over as the other man crouched down and shouldered/elbowed himself into the occupied spot. He bristled with indignation and glared perpendicularly from his new spot which was... actually quite comfortable.

"Well, what should I do then?" he asked, nestling into the loamy divet he'd found himself in. "I don't know how to gut a squirrel and this doesn't seem the best time to learn."

Daryl snorted, striking flint and shielding the infant flame with his hands. "Go 'head and paint your nails, princess. I'm busy."

"Fuck you, asshole."

Glenn shot him another hateful look for good measure—discouragingly, Daryl seemed more pleased by this than affronted—before happily whipping out his phone to beat his record at Snake. For some reason, the snake gained six segments at once and he scrolled through the source code with a scowl. Damn, he knew he should have written himself comments.

Daryl used his buck knife to slice a squirrel from throat to tail base. Blood seeped onto his hands as he glanced at Glenn in bemusement. "Watcha doin."

"Hm? Oh nothing. Wrote a little game. Found error, trying to isolate."

"No, I mean," he paused to decapitate the gutted squirrel's mother, "how're you usin y'phone."

Glenn looked up. "It doesn't work for calls, of course. But you know smartphones are just little computers. This one's quad core."

"Thought Rick said computers ain't workin nomore," Daryl said with a frown.

"That's just stupid, all they need is power. I finished up those chargers while you were gone."

"For games."

"Actually, I did it mainly for Wikipedia," Glenn admitted sheepishly.

"But ain't that on the internet? Reckon it's busted now."

"Uh yeah. But I grabbed it before everything went to hell."

The redneck underwent a visible struggle to interpret this in any meaningful way. Glenn couldn't decide if this confusion was worthy of scorn or endearment. Scorn seemed like it would take an excessive amount of energy to reach so—purely for the sake of efficiency—he went with endearment.

"Th'hell you talkin bout," Daryl asked sullenly, as if his words tasted like lima beans.

"Daryl, it's not like the cumulative sum of human knowledge went poof along with the internet. The information is stored in gigantic datacenters around the world. Hell, Google alone has six. Finland, Oregon, Iowa, North Dakota, South Dakota and Douglas. Wikipedia has one too and I transferred the data from their system to mine a week or so before everything crashed."

"Douglas?"

"You know..." He waved his arms around helpfully.  _"Douglas._  Get on I-20 West, take the exit for Riverside Parkway and keep going until you see it. It's only ten miles out of Atlanta."

Daryl was starting to look seriously constipated. "Should... should we go check it out?"

At this point, two squirrels were now roasting tantalizingly on a makeshift spit. Glenn sat up to facilitate obsessive staring.

Licked his lips. "Nah," he dismissed without looking away. "Google's security strategy is to leave everything unlabeled and scrambled around, so who knows what you'll find. Could just be cloud storage and besides, they're an aggregator. Nothing relevant to us. Waste of time."

He was graced with a noncommittal grunt in reply but hardly noticed, too concerned with the heady aroma of burning skeletal muscle tissue wafting towards him. Licked his lips again.

"Hey Daryl, I think mine's done. Take it off, please."

"Don' be stupid, course it ain't done."

This was a rational response.

However, Glenn's stomach was beyond the grumblies and while his prefrontal cortex was aware of Daryl's logic, his body was kicked into survival mode. The lizard brain had hijacked the rest of his awareness, emitting a repeating distress signal of:  _EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR—_

And so on.

Somewhere in the background noise, his frontal lobe perused the "Anatomy and Physiology" drawer, dimly noted the role of the hypothalamus and brain stem in this behavior, and wondered vaguely if it applied to walkers.

Licked his lips again.

"I like my meat rare!" he not-begged not-embarrassingly.

Daryl discharged a splutter/cough/throat-clear combo that caused Glenn to temporarily shift focus to him in concern.

"Swallow a bug?" he asked sympathetically.

The older man pointedly ignored this. "Call this rare? I seen animals hurt worse'n'at get well again."

Glenn huffed and raked a pile of leaves together with his fingers before, in a fit of insanity, he snatched up the twig-spit and burrowed back into his makeshift nest. Daryl's eyes blew wide with incredulous outrage and before Glenn knew what was happening he was tackled and having his prize wrestled out of his grip. His pride demanded that he be able to hold onto it for at least  _thirty seconds_  and he gritted his teeth, trying to roll over and block access. It may have been fighting a bit dirty, but he knew Daryl wouldn't—

Daryl curved his back and wedged a shoulder between Glenn and the ground, propping him up and preventing him from squishing their dinner. Glenn felt a hand snake around him and latch onto the end of the spit. He was starting to get honestly crowded and panicky now, trying to pull away in any direction, but Daryl matched his movements and continued to stay exactly flush with him.

A couple of increasingly disconcerting moments passed until finally the redneck thrust the burned, impaled squirrels aloft with a triumphant expression. Glenn sulked savagely from underneath him, trying not to notice that Daryl made a serviceable blanket-layer against the cool night air, if serviceable meant better than his actual blanket.

"Jesus, you're like a lamprey..." He instantly regretted opening his mouth and shrunk back, trying to bury himself into the ground as Daryl slowly turned narrowed eyes downward to regard him with a terrifying calm. "I wasn't seriously trying to take it, just messing around! It was a joke! I was hungry!"

"You think I was born yesterday? Squinty-eyed, citified, possum bastard," he drawled in a deep and ominous tone, eyes (ironically) squinting and face creeping lower with each word. For emphasis.

Glenn noted a little hysterically that from this distance his eyes were a darker shade of blue how fascinating it was an interesting contrast to the dull colors that made up the rest of him and—

"I oughta kick your  _fuckin ass_ —"

Daryl cut himself off with an uncharacteristic yelp, fingers abandoning the spit and digging deep bruises into Glenn's shoulders before he slid down and off the boy.

Glenn watched in horror as his blanket-layer was dragged off of him by a walker. The rotting female had pulled Daryl close enough that it was able to reach the back of his knees, flipping him partially over, pulling itself on top of him, ignoring his legs as it went straight for the visceral gold mine of the abdominal cavity. The walker fucking smelled, it squawked and clung like a demonic monkey in a shit dress as he lashed out wildly, buying time while he reached for his crossbow. But he couldn't it was too far fuckingFUCK it was  _too far—_

There was a heavy, indirect blow to the back of his thighs and a telltale squelch. He kicked the walker off with more force than necessary as Glenn wrenched his machete from the back of its skull.

Glenn's face contorted in disgust at the dual layered stink of it. "Why does it—eughh..."

Daryl slipped the bandana out of his back pocket and held it over his mouth and nose as he crouched to examine it. "Damn," he breathed out shallowly as his eyes watered, "bitch stinks so bad she'd knock a buzzard off a gut wagon. An' no wonder," he straightened up and peered towards the outhouse, the door of which was suspiciously ajar. "She's covered in shit."

"Actual shit?"

"Wonder who th'fuck she was."

"Oh yeah!" Glenn looked incredibly guilty and Daryl sighed inwardly. "A family lived here. I think there's a kid too somewhere."

Daryl stared at him for a long moment, then picked up the spit and trudged back over to the dying fire. He sat down. He prodded the flames to wake it back up. He ignored the presence to his left.

"Daryl?"

He ignored the fly buzzing to his left.

"I'm sorry?"

He considered swatting the buzzing fly, which was apparently growing worried and circling closer, pressing the length of its right arm gently into his side.

He rotated the meat.

"Should have told you when you got back and, uh, I haven't been very cooperative today have I? I really am sorry."

Daryl couldn't restrain a snort.

"Okay well, I don't know what else to say so... Just roll that around."

Punkass little... "I'll roll  _you_  around," he growled. Glenn blinked up at him owlishly and he frowned. That didn't come out right. "Head, I mean." Hell, that sounded worse. "Your head. I'll roll your head around." Of all the godamm... Unsure of what else to do, he flushed and glared.

"I'll uh, keep that in mind. Is my squirrel ready yet or what?"

Glenn narrowly avoided an enthusiastic swat upside the head.

 

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always listen to tunes when I write and decided to embed one at the end of each chapter. Every chapter has one now (except 2, no music that time) so go back and have a listen if you're curious.


	7. Don't Remind Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn makes a plan which mostly fails and Daryl's life starts to get confusing.
> 
> Guest Appearance: Sir!John Daniels

Considering the mess he'd made so far, Glenn was determined to end the day on a positive note.

After some perseverant snooping, he managed to find a skillet, a patch of wild onion grass (growing a safe distance from the flower potty), a couple of tin cups and a gigantic, half-full (or half-empty, if you were a downer like Daryl) bottle of Jack Daniels. He returned with these goodies just as Daryl finished up skinning two more squirrels. At the sight of hard booze, Daryl brightened considerably. He immediately reached for the bottle and got a smacked hand instead.

Glenn then proceeded to order a gaping Daryl to take care of the corpse and wash his hands, while Chef Glenn took care of the rest.

Astonishingly, despite the murderous look in his eyes, the hunter did as he was told without a word, dragging the dead woman a fair distance into the woods before disappearing in the direction of the stream. Glenn had just stood there for a moment, nonplussed, before taking advantage of it and getting to work. The meat turned out pretty well and with bellies partially sated, they finally broke out the whiskey.

It would be a mistake to categorize what followed as a positive bonding experience.

Glenn ended up babbling about his plans to travel to South Dakota, which Daryl instantly denounced as "fuckin stupid" since he would get himself killed within a week.

Glenn found this an insulting underestimation of his abilities and told him so.  
Daryl retorted that he was a dumbass if he thought he'd survive that far on his own.

Glenn parried that he was an uneducated, uncivilized monkey.  
Daryl volleyed that he was a dipshit.

Glenn suggested where he could shove his opinions.  
Daryl questioned the fidelity of his mother.

Glenn thought about his mother, turned away and burst into manly tears.  
Daryl took a desperate, gulping swig straight from the bottle. 

After this, things took a bit of a downward turn.

Glenn forced himself to stop crying once his nose started running (and he realized there was nothing to wipe it with besides his own sleeve). He tried taking a sip from his empty cup for the third time and heaved a gigantic sigh. Turning to the stump he'd been using as a table all night, he very carefully set his cup down in midair beside it. Depressingly, it didn't float as he hoped. He heaved another exaggerated sigh and floundered for a moment before there was a welcoming distraction of noise from behind. Preferring anger over grief any day, he rounded furiously. Daryl froze like a deer in headlights, bottle halfway to his mouth.

"I shoulda known!" Glenn slurred angrily for the sake of being angry. "Slobberin all over it with your big... big _monkey_ lips. Now it'll be half backwash cuz _apparently_ cups are toooo complicated for Hill-Billy Badass over here!"

It wasn't his proudest moment. If the bottle had been filled with something less precious, it would have been flung at his head.

As it stood, Daryl responded by cradling the bottle closer to his chest and shooting Glenn an acute look of suspicion, as if the only problem here was the implication that he might be expected to share. Glenn confirmed this by holding out Daryl's discarded cup in silent demand. The redneck's eyes narrowed to slits and he mutinously tilted the bottle back, draining the rest of the whiskey in one go. Glenn stared, arm falling back to his side, equal parts pissed and impressed.

Daryl's lips released the bottleneck with a liquid _pop_ before turning to catch Glenn's eyes. He tossed the bottle breezily over his shoulder, ignoring the distant sound of shattering glass. Then he smiled. _Smiled,_ with teeth and everything.

It was pretty horrible as smiles went. Might have been the whiskey, but Glenn could have sworn it looked more predatory than anything else, like he was about to go straight for the jugular. He raised his gaze from that unfamiliar grinning mouth to those familiar blue eyes. They were gloating. They were practically dripping with gloat. He chucked his cup without thinking and it bounced ridiculously off that stupidly muscular chest.

Then Daryl rushed him and rudely threw him over his shoulder like a burlap sack.

Between Daryl Dixon juggling his body and Jack Daniels juggling his mind, Glenn was convinced the entire universe had turned into a kaleidoscope, with himself as the epicenter and gravity set to 'random' mode. His insides were moving more than they should, spinning clockwise while the kaleidoscope he was trapped inside was spinning anti-clockwise and how/when/why did this even happen.

Then he was tossed onto a bed and Daryl was looking down at him and reality superimposed itself.

"Hey!" he protested belatedly, struggling to sit up.

He was shoved back down by a hand on his chest. "Shut up 'n lie down."

Just sitting up halfway had made his stomach do a terrible flippy thing. If he opened his mouth again, there was no guarantee that words would be the only thing to come out of it. Left with no choice, he complied with Daryl's demands and curled up miserably onto his side. Whiskey. Who's bright idea was that anyway? Sleep would be impossible until someone unplugged the turbocharged carousel the universe had decided to take for a joyride.

There were hands on his back, pushing. "Wh-what are—" They kept pushing until one of his legs fell off the bed. He made a distressed noise and they stopped. Tilting his head, he could barely make out Daryl's form, sitting upright next to him.

"Daryl, I don't wanna sleep on the floor," he mumbled, fiercely hugging his stinky pillow. "Why are you pushing me, stop it..."

The hands receded and there was a pause. "Plantcher foot. Spinnin'll slow."

It took him a moment to translate this. Then: "Oh." He shifted to his back and tried it with his right leg that was now hanging off the bed, firmly planting his foot, imagining roots growing from the ball of his foot, the arch, the heel, physically tying it to the ground. Immediately the carousel slowed to a crawl. "Thanks fer unplugging th'universe," he murmured gratefully, unable to see Daryl's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. His little sigh morphed into a jaw-cracking yawn. "Should come wimme to Sioux Falls..."

There was a much longer pause, then an ambiguous grunt came from the darkness to his left. It fell on sleeping ears.

If Daryl stayed awake listening to the peaceful sound of Glenn's breathing for the next hour, it was only because he wasn't used to it. The younger man broke the pattern by snuffling sleepily and shifting, turning over, wrist barely making contact with Daryl's "stupidly muscular" chest.

If Daryl used that connection to listen to Glenn's steady heartbeat—and if his own heart fractionally quickened its pace to match its rhythm—it was only because he was drunk. A microscopic voice in his brain hesitantly asked if maybe, perhaps, the drunk excuse was the reason why he finished off the whisk—

He crushed it ruthlessly and with practiced ease.

Meanwhile, the trundle bed continued to exist but nobody bothered to remember.

* * *

  



	8. All Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn is a brat (which very nearly bites him in the ass) and Daryl plays Reluctant Hero (again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings from the ancient past. I have no justification for going AWOL sooo...  
> [whistles innocently]
> 
> Molto grazie for the feedback! :)

Whenever Daryl emerged from Ogden's sweet repose, four things always remained constant: he awoke with a panicked jolt, a sheen of sweat, morning wood, and by himself. Only one was true this morning and it took him more than a few minutes to process what was going on.

He woke up gradually, comfortably. For the first time in longer than he cared to recall, he actually felt rested, hangover or not. No fear, no sweat, just lazy warmth and a pleasant burning below the belt that he rebelliously considered increasing for once. His left hand lowered of its own accord and he let himself relax into it. That is, until he came around enough to notice pressure to his right and a tickle in his armpit. He swallowed and turned his head, eyes bugging out before he could stop them, preferring a walker over what they reported.

Glenn was sprawled diagonally over the bed, eating into half of Daryl's space with greedy, careless limbs. He was hugging his bicep like a goddamn teddy bear, drooling face smushed into his armpit. Daryl reckoned he wouldn't be looking so peaceful if he was awake. Especially if the kid realized where his face was.  

 _Definitely_ if he saw where Daryl's hand was. 

Daryl's gut threatened to empty itself and spurted a couple of acid drops onto his tongue as a teaser. His dick deflated faster than a popped balloon. His trapped arm felt like it was crawling with a hundred millipedes wearing cleats. Sweet Jesus, what had he gotten himself into last night? Not wasting another second, he sprang up, grabbed the Scout and hightailed it outa there.

Well, after he opened the curtain _juust_ enough to let the raw sun stab through Glenn's hungover eyelids like a cheerful morning ice pick. Then he shoved him off the bed. _Then_ he ran outside.

He knotched a bolt and thought about how satisfying and appropriate Glenn's bruised anger would be. He did _not_ think about how satisfying and inappropriate it was that he had touched Glenn's bare skin with the same hand that had been on his dick. He sure as hell didn't think about how unsatisfying and appropriate Glenn's anger would be if he knew what Daryl was not thinking about.

All this not-thinking was killing his zen. He killed a large rabbit to restore balance and instantly felt better.

Loud and incoherent swearing leaked through the cabin walls and into his ears. That made him feel even better. Problems were always easier to handle when they came at you swinging.

"Daryl!"

He turned to see an extremely disheveled looking Glenn stumbling toward him. The boy's greasy hair was sticking up every which way like one of those Japanese cartoon characters and his face wore a thunderous frown.

"What the hell was tha-- _ohh_ ow..." Glenn cut off the beginning of a decent rant to grip his head in both hands. "Remind me to never drink again. Ever. Evil. _Eviiilll..."_

A snicker escaped Daryl before he could suppress it. He hastily covered it up with a cough and focused on a very important nonexistent thing in the distance.

Glenn looked outraged. "You-you!" he spluttered. "You did this on _purpose!"_

"What?" asked Daryl incredulously. "Ain't my fault y'can't hold your liquor!"

Of course at that moment, actual thunder gave a rolling _crack-BOOM_ through the sky and sheets of rain began to fall, instantly drenching them both. They paused in surprise and blinked at each other. 

"Guess that's my fault too," Daryl eventually sniped, feeling foolish and angry for no reason.

"Yes," Glenn agreed, just to be difficult. The rain was washing the fight out of him and his head was killing him. He dropped right where he stood, flat on his back in the giant, random pile of dirt, which was now a giant, random puddle of mud.

"Get up. We gotta keep movin'."

"No," Glenn disagreed, just to be difficult.

Daryl was pissed. "I said _GET UP,"_ he growled.

Glenn squelched at him rebelliously and made a mud angel.

The rain continued to fall around them. Daryl watched the other for a moment in consternation before shrugging and walking away. Not ten steps later there was a panicked shout. He whirled around to see two small, skeletal hands protruding from the sludge, firmly latched onto either side of Glenn's head. The kid's eyes were bulging out of their sockets and he shrieked (later denied) as the ground undulated beneath him.

Daryl knew he had to act fast and it took him only two leaps to cover the ground between them. He straddled Glenn's waist, grabbed both the walker's slimy hands and yanked with all his might. There was a sickening, liquid snap and he fell onto his back with a detached arm in each hand. Disgusted, he tossed them aside and pulled Glenn upright by the front of his shirt just as jaws broke through the final layer of mud. They scrambled to their feet as the walker child snapped blindly up into the impression left by Glenn's skull.

"Holy shit," the Asian breathed.  

Daryl glared at him. "You done bitchin' now?"  

Glenn's face said no, he most certainly was _not_ done, but his mouth remained strategically shut.

The walker growled behind them. Daryl crushed its head with a vicious, impatient stomp and vanished into the trees. Glenn raced to grab his backpack from the front porch and hurried after him. 

They were pretty quiet after that, marching in silence through the woods. Glenn nursed his first hangover while Daryl expertly ignored his own. They had a bit of a squabble in the afternoon when Glenn refused to let Daryl store game in his backpack, but other than that they had reached a temporary truce. The rain slowed to a light sprinkle, then to a lazy, sporadic drizzle.

"I hate this kind of rain," Glenn complained finally. "It's like the sky is drooling on us."

"Cut the chatter."

Glenn opened his mouth to do the exact opposite when they stepped through a clump of trees into a dangerous but breathtaking area, a rocky outcrop that dropped off sharply into something between a steep hill and cliff. The view was magnificent, twin mountainous crests with the sun flashing between them, refracting brilliantly through the lingering precipitation. 

Glenn marveled at the beauty.

"Devil's beatin' his wife again." Moment ruined, as per usual.

"Say what?"

"Sun comin' through rain," Daryl explained unhelpfully, turning back towards camp. "Somethin' my uncle used to say."

"You're so weird."

The redneck grunted in possible agreement.

Glenn turned thoughtful. "Speaking of wife beating... What's your take on Ed and Carol."

"What, them psychos?" asked Daryl, using his crossbow to beat an impeding shrub into submission. "I tell you what, Ed got stuck standin' behind the door when they was passin' out brains." This statement was underscored with a wise nod. "Hell, if the shit in his head got turned t'gas it wouldn't drive a pissant's go-cart round the inside of a cheerio."

He paused to glare as Glenn started laughing. "You wanna know what I think or don'tcha?"  

"Yeah, sorry. Go ahead." 

"Carol now, she's real nice, but _all_ this time and she ain't took that lil' girl and left his sorry ass. I'd say her tank's no more'n half full." He gave Glenn a knowing look before turning aside casually to shoot an oblivious beaver in the neck.

"You said it, man. I totally agree."

Daryl looked startled for a moment before nodding smugly and subconsciously slicing a vine in that particular way that he knew made his bicep look good. 

  


* * *

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song is alternately titled "Ode to Pinata Joe's Zombie Daughter". 
> 
> And now, please join me in a moment of silence for Pinata Joe and his family.
> 
> ◉_◉
> 
> Thank you, that was very moving.


	9. Stay Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: News of Glenn's death is greatly exaggerated and Daryl needs to verify this fact.

It was early evening by the time they made it back to camp. Daryl strutted right to the center, apparently caught up in one of his rare sociable moods.

"Light a fire, sistas!" he crowed, holding the beaver aloft by its tail and giving it a good shake. "We got us a big sumbitch!"

Glenn trailed behind in the shadows, breathing hard and nearly tripping over a tree root, exhaustion diminishing his reflex time. Even though he was in good physical shape, his body was built more for speed than endurance. Didn't help that Daryl had decided to make him the pack mule, insisting that he carry the rest of the game. Said it was good for him. Asshole.

"Daryl man, we got us a problem," he heard Shane say somewhere up ahead. "Glenn's gone missin'."

"Since yesterday morning," bitched Andrea, somehow making three innocent words sound like she was accusing him of murder, her only real talent. "I saw him heading towards your camp at dawn."

"Tell us, Daryl. Have you seen him?" asked Dale slowly, cautiously. "I fear the worst may have happened. The boy was injured and in no condition to go off on his own."

"Now I know it's no concern o' yours," Rick added politically, "but we gotta look out for each other. He's one of us and if you know somethin' I'd appreciate you sharin' it."

Glenn watched Daryl swivel around towards each speaker in turn, growing confusion and indignation evident on his face.

"What's wrong with all y'all?" the redneck finally shouted, throwing up an arm in anger. "There ain't nothin' wrong with him!" He sent a sharp look in Glenn's direction, gesturing with his chin to get-the-fuck-over-here.

Glenn scrambled to comply and stepped tentatively into the newly flickering firelight. "Uh, hey guys." Everyone stared and he scratched his neck awkwardly. "Maybe I should have mentioned that I was going with Daryl, but it was kind of a spur of the moment thing."

Shane made an irritated noise and muttered something about, "goddamn waste of my time," before clomping away. Andrea rolled her eyes dramatically in self-righteous disgust. Rick looked relieved in an 'inconvenient crisis averted' sort of way.

"I'm just glad you're okay, son," said Dale kindly, clapping Glenn on the shoulder while his eyebrows convulsed in a highly disturbing manner. Glenn hid a wince as Dale's fingers dug into the bruises Daryl had made the previous night.

"We all are," agreed Rick, clapping his other shoulder with an even more painful grip. "You're the best town runner we got, the group wouldn't be the same without you."

Daryl shoved Glenn hard with his shoulder, effectively putting himself between the Asian and the older men. Glenn didn't know if the guy did it to be an ass or if he saw his discomfort, either way he was grateful.

"You wanna keep jerkin' him off or do you wanna start fillin' these folks' stomachs? Fuckers won't cook 'emselves." Daryl waved the beaver in Rick's face, who grimaced.

Glenn flushed darkly and stared at his shoes. He'd kind of liked it, to be honest. His dad died so long ago that he didn't even remember what he looked like and their praise was addictive. Of course Daryl had to make it weird and ruin it.

The drama was soon forgotten, however, over the excitement of fresh food. Everyone dug in with gusto, especially the little ones who had to be shushed multiple times for squeeling too loudly. Glenn wasn't a kid person, but even he had to admit they were pretty cute. He patted the little Hispanic girl on the head when she shyly approached to thank him for dinner. He assumed this was okay because she beemed at him before scampering back to her mother.

"Shzz nah dah," Daryl said around a mouthful of food, suddenly materializing next to him out of the darkness.

"Yeah, I have no idea what you just said."

The hunter's adams apple rolled as he swallowed half-chewed food. "I said she's not a dog. You don't just pet 'em on the head."

"She didn't seem to mind," Glenn defended, fully prepared for another verbal battle.

Daryl just shook his head resignedly and sat down beside him, taking a bite of food that was three times the amount considered acceptable in polite society. They ate in companionable silence, idly listening to the steady murmur of conversation around them, only broken by the occasional, quickly stifled laugh.

Daryl mumbled something under his breath. Glenn ignored him and continued to peacefully people-watch. Daryl mumbled something else a fraction louder. It was only the short glance the man aimed in his direction that made Glenn wonder if the mumble was actually aimed at him too.

"Are you talking to me? Because even a Vulcan wouldn't be able to hear you, much less any of the others."

"I said," Daryl ground out, apparently with great difficulty. "What's wrong with your shoulders."

Glenn was surprised. Daryl had noticed his discomfort earlier without being aware of the cause. "When you were attacked last night, you grabbed me pretty hard. Don't worry about it though, it's fine."

Daryl looked intensely unconvinced. "You should prob'ly get it looked at."

"Look, I said don't worry about it. Pretty sure it's just bruising so I'll be good as new in a couple days."

But Daryl had already stood, licking grease off his fingertips. "Come on," he said in a tone that left no room for argument and started walking towards his tent.

Glenn scowled into the fire but sullenly rose and made his way to Daryl's smaller camp, pointedly ignoring the curious looks being sent his way. Talk about deja vu.

Daryl was just starting a fire in his own pit by the time Glenn got there. "Go on inside," he said casually, gesturing to his unzipped tent with his head, eyes still trained on his task.

"Err," Glenn replied intelligently. "Inside?"

"What I said. Unless you wanna take off your shirt right here."

Glenn shifted in agitation, feeling like the situation had swiftly spiraled out of his control. "Is... Is that really necessary?"

Daryl stood in one fluid motion and stepped right up into Glenn's personal space, shoulders arching slightly to create the illusion of added height and bulk. "Inside. Now."

"Alright, alright! Geez. You're such a baby when you don't get your way."

He quickly ducked inside and took off his shirt to avoid the inevitable reaction to that, hearing spluttering outside that one could only assume to be rage induced.

"You know, I'm a highly rational man," he only partially lied, neatly folding his shirt and placing it on top of a gun case against the far wall. "If you have good reasons, all you have to do is _say_ them instead of going all alpha and," he turned back around to find Daryl staring him down from six inches away, "and uh..." he swallowed, "and stuff..."

Daryl broke eye contact to examine his left shoulder, prodding gently at the dark bruise there. "Stuff, huh?"

"What?"

Daryl bent his head and pressed on his coracoid process that wasn't visibly bruised but hurt like holy _fuck_ when he did that. "Alpha and stuff?"

"Yeah," said Glenn, struggling to remember what he had been talking about as Daryl moved to the right side, knuckles brushing along the clavicle as Glenn shifted.

Daryl shrugged and their shoulders brushed lightly with the movement. "Dunno, my way seems to work just fine. I think," he paused as the pads of his fingers repeated the process on the other side, "that you're just sayin' that cuz you can't do it."

"Dude, I don't even know what we're talking about anymore. This is too weird, are you done?"

Daryl frowned deeply and nodded, taking three steps back and averting his gaze. "You got a bruised bone. It'll heal on it's own jus' fine, but it'll take longer 'n hurt more."

Glenn grabbed his shirt and hastily threw it on over his head. Then he lingered and fidgeted, feeling guilty. "Daryl..."

"We're done here. Get out."

"But--"

"I said get the fuck out!"

Glenn ran.

Daryl clenched his fists, but otherwise didn't move. Ten minutes later he laid down and fell into a new night terror.

  


* * *

  



	10. Idealistic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn and Daryl manage to surprise each other (to nobody's great surprise).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the patience guys! And the reviews, they make me happy indeed.

The next day dawned like a bowl of gruel being slopped over the landscape, the sky a dingy off-white that seemed to coat everything in a fine layer of dust. Glenn couldn't help being irrationally pissed.

Here he'd gone through all that work last night, packing and (most importantly) psyching himself up to depart on this Most Epic of Quests and the universe couldn't even help him out with a little cornflower blue and Vitamin D action. No, it blocked these psychological boons with a layer of bird-shit clouds. The great bird in the sky was quite literally -- in a strictly metaphorical sense -- shitting all over his parade.

Well, screw that. He'd just have to drive until he found the sun again.

And he would leave now, before breakfast, as he had decided last night. There was no point in telling the others, they would just try to talk him out of it, call him an idiot and generally waste his time. Besides, Daryl knew and could tell the others where he had gone. He ignored the sudden cramp in his chest at the thought, chalking it up to travel nerves, and started packing his car.

From the other end of camp, Daryl found his feet carrying him unwillingly over to where Glenn was packing his things into a Subaru Forester that had seen better decades. His brain felt clogged and he wound up standing off to the side, chin tilted down, hands in pockets, silently watching. Glenn glanced in his direction every so often but didn't attempt to break the silence.

"Guess you're leavin' now," Daryl eventually mumbled without meaning to and frowned.

Glenn bit his lip. "Yeah," he said, turning to face him. "There is one thing I want to do though. Before I go. I've been meaning to bring it up at some point, but it never seemed like the right time. Didn't know how you'll react."

The redneck didn't say anything, but his eyes darted like a confused bee as he slowly brought his face back inline with Glenn's, a question in them as they locked on. Glenn climbed half into the trunk of the Forester, emerging with a small blue cooler and a pair of metallic salad tongs.

His expression was very grave as he offered them to the older man.

"The hell's this?" Daryl asked suspiciously.

"Just open it. Careful, it's full of dry ice."

Daryl's face said _wtf_ but he set the cooler down on the ground, lowered to one knee, gingerly opened it and peered inside. His face paled instantly, almost as ashen as the sawed-off hand that stared up at him. His eyes started leaking and he snapped back up to glare outraged at Glenn, setting his jaw at a ridiculous angle to compensate for the quiver.

"What the hell! Y'savin' it for lunch?"

"What are you--what? No, man! No, no, I thought...well, since we haven't found your brother yet and it's been such a long time I thought...well, I thought...we could bury it."

Daryl just stared at him with wild, angry eyes.

"Say a few words, you know?"

Daryl's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Give you some, I dunno, some closure."

Daryl's gaze dropped back into the cooler. "You kept it this whole time?" he rasped.

"You put it in my backpack, I thought you'd want me to."

Daryl's jaw fell and rose and fell and rose as his mind searched for words and failed miserably. Finally he settled on a nod and turned to enter the woods, Glenn close on his heels.

They'd only walked for five minutes when Daryl stopped. "Good a spot as any."

Glenn pulled an e-tool out of its slot on the side of his backpack and offered it to Daryl. One severed hand doesn't exactly take a lot of effort to bury and two minutes later Daryl was tamping the dirt down above it. Glenn accepted the e-tool back and stood there awkwardly. He chanced a glance at Daryl and the poor guy looked pretty out of it, like he couldn't decide if he should burst into tears or die on the spot. One stop short of aneurysm city.

Glenn cleared his throat and regarded the ground solemnly. "Well, Merle, you're probably dead," he began.

Daryl made a little choked sound and Glenn could have bashed his own head in with the e-tool. Smooth, man.

He hurriedly continued. "I didn't know you, but Daryl did." Another dazzling jewel of insight. "And family is the most important thing. And uh. Even if you were a complete and total asshole," another choked sound, possibly a huff of laughter, "I know you loved and looked out for your brother, which is the most important thing so... Um, I hope you're resting in peace. Wherever you are. Uh. Amen."

Glenn was positive he had just delivered the worst eulogy in the history of the universe. He was so mortified he couldn't look Daryl in the eye when the man turned to him and instead studied his boots with furious energy.

"Hey," Daryl said hoarsely, giving his eyes a brisk swipe. "Thanks." Then he inhaled deeply and looked around, clearing his throat and wiping his face of emotion, pulling himself out of whatever headspace the 'ceremony' had put him in. "We should get back."

"Okay."

They walked back in silence, with Daryl once again standing off to the side as Glenn tossed his backpack in the passenger seat of the Forester. Glenn turned and was surprised to find the other man making direct eye contact, holding his gaze firmly. Wheels were turning behind Daryl's eyes, taking his thoughts to some unknown destination.

Glenn squared his shoulders, preparing to give a manly, confident nod in farewell.

"Come with me!" Or not.

Daryl's eyes widened. "Glenn..."

Glenn just looked at him beseechingly, knowing he probably looked pathetic but, damn. He really, really didn't want to do this alone.

"You wanna leave, that's on you," Daryl said almost bitterly.

Glenn bit his lip and glanced to the side. Then back to Daryl, then to the side, then to Daryl. The other man stared like a sullen lump.

"I just don't see the point in staying here. We're not accomplishing anything, we don't know these other people. Let's just go!"

Daryl's eyes hardened. "'These other people'? Man, I don't know  _you!_ Ain't got no reason to go with you," his eyes flashed and he spoke with a vehemence that threw Glenn off kilter. "Goin' or stayin'd be the same to me, 'cept here I'm likely to live longer. You wanna be walker bait, that's on you. Dumbass."

In other words: no, no, no and hell no.

"Wow, Daryl, tell me what you really think. Don't sugar coat it on my account." Glenn turned quickly away to hide the hurt in his face. "See you around," he lied automatically.

The door of the Forester creaked as he opened it and it took three turns of the key for the engine to turn over, but that was okay. He could switch vehicles along the way if necessary. With one last wistful look at the ratty, dirt encrusted man outside the window, he left.

Even with the whole, you know, zombie apocalypse thing, he'd never given much thought to Murphy's Law. If he had, he probably would have had more misgivings about attempting such a journey alone, probably would have planned for more potential emergencies.

But he hadn't and he didn't and was therefore honestly surprised when the Forester crapped out on him before he'd gone even thirty miles.

There was a very bad sounding clank, followed by scraping, followed by lurching and smoking and the whole nine yards. It finally rolled to an impotent stop, made one final death rattle, and gave up it's soul to the junker afterlife. He sat frozen for two minutes, thumped his head on the dashboard for another minute and a half, and then checked the two other cars on the road. Both too smashed to run, even if he could siphon gas.

Fan-friggin-tastic.

Scooping up what food he could smash into his already stuffed backpack, he hoisted it, set his jaw and started to run. All he could do at this point would be to check every car he came across until he found one he could use, hole up in a wreck if he was still on foot when night fell. He was an open target on the road like this, on the highway like this, and why the flying mother of all fuckers did he leave by himself. This was bad. This was so very bad.

He ran. And he ran. Then he jogged. Then he half power-walked, half limped. Killed a couple of walkers, hurt his wrist. Limped some more. Pathetically, it was only afternoon. By now he was hungry and thirsty and tired but he didn't want to dip into his supplies yet, and he couldn't stop. He had to keep going, just a little farther. He hummed a sea shanty to himself and cradled his wrist.

After a few minutes he noticed his humming was accompanied by the sound of machinery. He turned around to see an old, blue pickup lumbering towards him. Squinting his eyes, he waited for the dark blob in the cab to morph into a recognizable object. It had to be his eyes playing tricks on him, because he could swear he could see:

Daryl scowled. He was furious.

No more'n thirty miles out was a distinctly recognizable steaming pile of Subaru. The shit-for-brains punk was nowhere in sight, but his backpack was gone so Daryl figured he'd find him up the road someplace. And wha'd'ya frickin' know, there he was, skippin' like a fairy down the side of the road.

He rolled down the window as he pulled up beside him. "Well, if it ain't the dumbest shit in all o' Georgia. Lookit you, wavin' that yellow ass like a red flag at a rodeo."

The kid didn't answer, just stared and worked his mouth open and closed like a retarded fish.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. "Th'fuck you starin' at? Ain't got all day."

The kid slammed him with a brilliant, blinding smile, corners of his mouth stretching near to his ears. The glare of it caused everything else to dim.

Daryl didn't like it and turned away indifferently as the passenger door was wrenched open and 150 pounds of lanky, manic Asian boy spilled into his truck. He made the mistake of stealing a glance and that smile clocked him again, a sharp right hook/kidney punch at close range, leaving him smarting and winded. Or at least it might've, if he was some kinda pussy who couldn't hold his own.

"Thanks, Daryl," the kid panted, kicking his pack violently with his heel, trying to stuff it under the seat. "Seriously."

Daryl put the truck into gear. "Whatever."

He didn't give a shit about the weird look bein' thrown his way. He was staring resolutely at the road as he drove and it weren't his fault if his periph picked it up, the _(misplaced, unearned)_ gratitude, admiration and somethin' else he didn't know, didn't reckonize.

Which suited him just fine, not knowing. It creeped him out, set his teeth on edge that the Asian could be so open, so shamelessly expressive. Like he didn't know that he shouldn't, like he didn't know how easily people could use it to their advantage. He knew Glenn was tougher than he looked, knew he could be shrewd and skeptical, but for some reason he never acted that way with Daryl. No, around him the guy was different.

Glenn was curious and starry-eyed and trusting and unashamed. Glenn was innocent. Glenn was weak.

Merle woulda sneered and broken him.

Daryl felt like a whore in church.

Anyways, it made no difference that nobody had ever looked at him that way before. He didn't like it, didn't want it, sure as hell didn't need it. All he needed was to make sure that pouty mouth kept on wanting to smile at him, instead of wanting to eat him. With no one to watch his back, it was just a matter of time before Glenn got bit and that would be... Daryl's abs clenched.

Unfortunate.

But enough o' this shit. He was here, Glenn was here, they were driving and that was that. He cleared his mind and focused on the road.

Glenn gazed out the dirty window. A lone walker had heard their approach and was shambling frantically towards the road. As they passed, it flopped over the guard rail and faceplanted into the shoulder, legs scissoring uselessly in the air above its head.

Glenn snickered, then sighed. "You know, in a weird way I'm kinda going to miss Piñata Joe."

"Shouldn't be namin' walkers, man. F'real. That's messed up," Daryl replied severely, jerking the wheel with more force than necessary to avoid some human roadkill.

Glenn's head smarted from where it smacked against the window and he glowered, slouching lower into his seat. "Dude I name everything. My ferret, my desktop, my tablet, my favorite pen, my car, my machete—"

"Wellat's different. Everbody names'er cars."

"Oh yeah? What's this called then?"

"Nellie."

As if responding to its name, the truck shuddered with a grinding wheeze, gave a rattling cough and then continued along as if nothing had happened.

Daryl gave Glenn a sidelong glance, narrowly avoiding a broken down Beemer. "Nervous Nellie."

"Give the man a Pulitzer."

He perked up. "That some kinda yank hooch?"

"Yes, 500 proof and very expensive. Eyes on the road please."

"Nobody likes a smartass."

"But I like you," Glenn replied, grinning cheekily. "I can't believe you're here! I feel like singing the Indiana Jones theme song right now."

"Don't even think about--"

"Dun dada daaaaahhh, dun da dahhh. Dun dada DAAAAHHH--"

"Don't make me pull this truck over! I _will_ leave your ass on the side o' the road!"

Glenn stopped, cheeks puffed, but his eyes didn't stop shining. Daryl couldn't resist or deny the twitch that lifted the corner of his mouth.

 

* * *

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glenn is the chocolatey laxative to Daryl's emotional constipation.


	11. Man of Simple Pleasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn wants to make a quick detour and Daryl can't believe his life.

"Pull off here."

Daryl looked over at Glenn but didn't change course. "Why?"

"Just turn! Quick, we're passing the ramp!"

Daryl twisted the wheel and the truck swerved jarringly over the rumble strip. An open packet of crackers that Glenn had set on the dashboard flew to the side and exploded against the window in a shower of crumbs.

"Godamnit, Glenn!"

"Whooo NASCAR turn! Alright!"

"You're a pain in my ass, y'know that," Daryl exhaled in a longsuffering sigh.

"Yeah, you said that like an hour ago," Glenn replied, flicking a crumb at him. "See my face? That's apathy." He leaned down to brush the crumbs into a pile and yelped as Daryl swatted the back of his head.

"Shut up 'n focus. Why're we in -- what is this dump -- Murfreesboro? Th'hell kinda name is that for a town."

"Oh!" Glenn bounced back up. "We need to go to the Amazon warehouse."

Daryl waited a beat. _"Why?"_

"I have an idea."

Daryl muttered a few choice words under his breath that Glenn chose to ignore for the sake of social harmony.

"Hey stop at a gas station, will you? I have the address but we need a local map."

Daryl pulled up at a Circle K and got out to check the pumps and tanks while Glenn ran inside. The street was barren with not a walker in sight, more disconcerting than comforting, and he hoisted his machete as he cautiously entered. A sudden noise caused his heart to thud and adrenal glands to squirt, before he realized it was a little bell above the door. Well, that made him feel dumb.

He made quick work of searching the aisles for threats and/or snacks. Nothing, besides a three quarters bottle of Jim Beam behind the counter. Plenty of maps though. He grabbed one and left.

"Any gas?"

"Nope," said Daryl. "All cleaned out."

"Same inside. Okay!" he exclaimed brightly, slamming the passenger door shut behind him. "Let's go! Uh..." He opened the map, which was practically the size of the windshield when unfolded, and disappeared behind it. "Gooo," he began, raising his voice to be heard over the crinkling paper as he turned the map this way and that. "Right! Then right, left, left, right, left, right, left, left. Oops, I mean right, right, left. At the end there. Okay?"

Daryl raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Uh, go that way," he pointed.

It took them twenty minutes and two wrong turns before they finally managed to find the right street. It was in the industrial part of town, chain link fences and towering hulking monoliths of iron and steel rose around them. It was odd, seeing so many smokestacks standing in a row without any smoke, like Paul Bunyan's church organ.

"Can you imagine Captain Nemo playing _Toccata and Fugue_ on a pipe organ the size of those smoke stacks? Talk about creepy. Brrr," he said, shivering dramatically.

Daryl's gaze bounced between him and the stacks incredulously. "Y'know what gives me th'creeps, Glenn? You."

"Oh come on, you know what I'm talking about. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea! It's a classic!"

"I know what it is, jackass, I ain't stupid."

Daryl seemed so honestly offended that Glenn couldn't help but feel chastised.

He bit his lip. "Right, sorry."

Daryl snuck another glance at him. "Yeah, well. Are we gittin' close to this place'r what?"

"Should be just up ahead."

They ended up pulling into a huge parking lot littered with upturned traffic cones, broken down cars, and crows. As they slowly made their way through the mess, the crows squawked angrily into the sky, revealing the hidden layer of corpses beneath them. The piles of bodies were thicker towards the edge of the lot where they ended in a huge burning pile near the dumpsters. Nothing new or alarming.

The building itself struck Glenn as prisonesque. A nice prison, but still a prison. Long, tall, with thick walls and corners that stood above the rest and resembled towers. They drove slowly past docking bay door after docking bay door, on and on and on. It was a monster of a building.

Daryl stopped the truck in front of the dock closest to the entrance.

"What are you doing?"

"Ain't no way I'm goin' in and leavin' Nellie like this. Aside from the fact we don't know what th'hell we'll find in there, don't wanna come out to walkers swarmin'er."

"Right. I'll go in alone and open the bay door." Glenn pulled out his backpack and unclipped a small, single-strap backpack that was hanging off the side.

Daryl gave him a weird look. "What's that'cher purse?"

Glenn glared. "No! It's my slingbag! I love this thing! It's got all my tools and it's a convenient size!"

"Y'know I think your eyeliner's worn off, might wanna fix it when you're inside."

"Shut up man," Glenn ground out, opening the door angrily. "It's _Swiss gear,"_ as if that meant something. "It's not a friggin' purse, you douche." He moved to get out but paused at the feeling of a callused hand gripping his forearm. He followed the hand up the arm, up the shoulder, up the neck to Daryl's solemn eyes.

"Watch your back," Daryl said seriously. "There could be anythin' in there. If you're not out in five I'm comin' in after you."

Glenn swallowed and nodded, thrown off by the sudden change in atmosphere. Daryl let him go and he clambered out of the truck. He threw a mock salute to ease the tension and felt better when Daryl rolled his eyes.

The entrance was two huge double glass doors. Unlocked, thankfully, and with one last glance back at the truck he went in.

The first room was empty. Literally empty, one big cement room with three floor-to-ceiling turnstile gates at the other end. Well, crap. Hopefully whoever left the front doors unlocked was expecting to return and left these open too. He tried the first one but it wouldn't budge. Damn it. He stood there for a minute, fuming, and shoved at it angrily just because he could. This time he was rewarded with one scraping inch. Maybe it was just rusty. He tried the next turnstile and it spun smoothly around him.

Eh heh. Daryl didn't need to know about that.

The next room had a row of small, personal lockers and a row of three metal detectors leading to the next room. He waved his machete merrily as he pranced through the rightmost one. How novel. He sniggered to himself before being completely floored at the size of the next room he found himself in. True he'd read it was over a million square feet, but _still._

Think big. Not just big, but big and filled floor to ceiling with crap: boxes and bags and plastic and metal. It looked like a real life game of chutes and ladders, with packages in various states of undress in various stages of their journey, paused permanently on various conveyer belts and trapped forever within various machines.

It was pretty sweet.

But he was forgetting himself. He made his way to the first loading dock, noticing with profound sadness an abandoned pallet stacked shoulder-height with brand new Xbox Ones. It was so wrong. Damn the apocalypse. Behind the pallet was what interested him more, a computer station with a shelf full of scanners next to it. That must be the inventory system. He started towards it before he remembered, shit, Daryl.

Running to the dock, he grabbed the handle and heaved open the bay door, barely managing to get out of the way before Daryl barged right in with the truck.

"Dude!" He yanked the door shut. "You about ran me over!"

"No shit," Daryl bit out, slamming the truck door and stalking over to loom over him. "You made time bleed y'shaved it so close."

"Did I?" he asked nervously.

"You were late."

"Was I?"

Daryl's eyes darkened. "Stop makin' out like you don't know. I'm serious, Glenn. When I say five I _mean_ fuckin' five. I'm not gonna sit out there on my ass not knowin' if you been et or if y'just dickin' around. You best 'member that if you wanna be with me, boy."

Glenn blinked.

A rusty wheel turned behind Daryl's eyes. "I need to trust you if we're goin travel together," he explained gruffly, starting to look like he regretted saying anything. "Sioux Falls, it don't mean nothin' to me." Now he looked majorly pissed at himself and broke eye contact, looking slightly down and away.

Glenn wasn't sure what to say. Daryl had basically just admitted that he only came along because Glenn meant something to him. Unless he was reading into things, which was entirely possible. Possible but unlikely, judging from how uncomfortable Daryl looked with himself.

"Okay," Glenn said simply, tilting his head to catch Daryl's eyes again, trying to convey understanding and sincerity.

Daryl didn't move his head but flicked his eyes back up to Glenn, nodded minutely and turned away. He inhaled deeply and looked around himself for the first time. "So what're we lookin' for?"

"Oh you'll see," he said gleefully and waltzed over to the computer.

"How's that gonna work with no power--" Daryl cut himself off as Glenn turned the tower on its side and popped off the side panel. "Oh."

Glenn took a precision screwdriver set out of his pack and immediately set to work gutting the thing, pulling out wires and cords, scratching the poop out of the motherboard, and finally sliding out the hard drive, standing up to set it on the desk. He frowned and blew the dust off it, coughing as it bounced off the monitor and back into his face. There was a snort behind him and mumbled, "Dumbass." He glared over his shoulder and reached back into his pack, digging around until he pulled out two USB adapters, one SATA and the other mini-USB. Plug, plug, plug and he turned on his phone to begin data recovery.

"Okay," he said a few minutes later. "Found it. Come, Robin! To the bat cave! There's not a moment to lose!"

Daryl swiveled around from where he had been fiddling with some type of machinery. "What? Aw, hell no. I'm Batman," he growled.

Glenn stopped short and stared at him agape. "Daryl," he said slowly. "Have I ever told you how amazing you are?"

Daryl's snarl faded into faint bafflement and he just stood there, looking confused and... Well sort of adorable. If Glenn was the sort of person who would notice that sort of thing about the sort of person that Daryl was. Sort of. It wasn't a bad look on him, let's put it that way.

"This way," Glenn said and turned past the conveyors towards the west end of the room that was filled with shelving. The sound of Daryl's boots was a calming presence behind him as they slowly weaved their way to the right aisle, pausing every few feet and perking their ears for the sound of movement in the reverberant room.

"Here we go." Glenn picked up a small box from one side, walked down a few feet and picked up a larger one from the other side. "That's it, let's go."

"You gotta be shittin' me," Daryl griped. "We did all this for that? What the hell is it?"

"You really want to do this now? Or in the car on the road?"

Daryl scoffed and muttered under his breath but acquiesced, leading the way back. Glenn was feeling pretty damn good about all this. Not one setback! He was smiling dorkily to himself as he tossed his stuff into the passenger side, grabbing the handle of the bay door as Daryl turned over the truck engine. He yanked up with all his strength and fell back with a sharp cry as dozens of rotting hands shot through and grabbed at him.

Glenn's ass hurt like a bitch as his tail bone slammed into the concrete, but he didn't notice and brought the machete down in a high arc, slicing off the hand that had managed to clamp onto his ankle. The moans and growls of the walkers echoed in the warehouse like some kind of furry porn video, they echoed through his head like death. He gave a sharp kick at the head of the handless walker, its jawbone breaking clean off from the impact. There were more scrambling up the ramp and he couldn't seem to get his feet under him. Blood was pounding through his skull and his breathing became erratic.

Then a hand grabbed his collar and pulled him halfway into the truck.

"Feet! Pick up your feet! Get the door!" Daryl bellowed.

Glenn hastily pulled his feet in, closing the door just as Daryl floored it. One more second and the door would have been knocked off its hinges as they surged through the docking bay and smashed through the crowd of walkers. Glenn yelped as his head smacked into the ceiling, truck jostling wildly to the sound of crunching and squelching as they plowed down anything in their way, tires squealing as they finally pulled out onto the main road.

"If those walkers fucked up my truck, your ass is mine Chinaman!"

"It's a piece of junk anyway!" Glenn shouted back recklessly, giddy from their escape. At Daryl's look of pure outrage he hastily added, "I mean I'm sure it's fine, if not we can fix it. I'll help."

Daryl snorted. "Like I want you anywhere near it."

Glenn ignored him, too happily engaged in opening the slightly larger box. Daryl leaned over, blatantly straining to see what it was as Glenn finally lifted it up with a flourish.

"What the fuck, man! That's it? What _is_ it?"

"I've always wanted one," Glenn said, turning it around, marveling at it. "It's... a mini _quadcopter!"_

_"What?"_

"And I've just named him Timmy."

"That's it, there's nothin' else for it," said Daryl, sounding slightly dazed. "I have to kill you."

"Oh and one more thing." Glenn reached into his pack and pulled out the Jim Beam. "Who loves ya."

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 


	12. Watch the Corners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn is accident prone and Daryl doesn't mind as much as he should.

They crossed the Missouri border as darkness prowled on the edge of the horizon like a patient hyena. Daryl pulled off the highway into the first town they came across, a ghost town, not a body or vehicle in sight as they rolled through the main stretch.

"Looks like they evacuated," Glenn murmured, cheek resting against the cool glass of the window.

Daryl hummed noncommittally as he pulled into the vacant garage of an abandoned fire station, pickup dwarfed in the large space. The far wall was completely covered in shelving: a row of extinguishers sitting above a row of fire helmets, above a row of high visibility jackets, above a row of fire gear, cables and clips and gloves and boots. There was a long, narrow staircase along the left wall, leading to the upstairs living quarters.

Daryl grabbed his gear. "Follow me, kid," he said softly, priming his bow and heading cautiously for the stairs.

"Wait," Glenn stopped him. "I've got a better idea."

Bubbling with excitement, he ran to the fire pole on the right and carefully set his new quadcopter down on the concrete floor. It lit up cheerfully with soft blue and red lights, four propellers humming as it rose and hovered six feet in the air.

"We don' got time for your toy, Glenn," Daryl said sternly from behind, peering over Glenn's shoulder to check out the camera feed on the remote. "Worthless anyhow, can't see nothin'."

"Wait for it." Glenn switched on night vision and the screen lit up with a clear green glow, giving a first person view of the drone's flight path. "Alright Timmy, show time."

The tiny drone flew straight up through the hole in the ceiling and hovered in the room above. Glenn spun it around to get a quick 360° impression.

"Holy crap, Daryl, check it out! These guys were living in style!"

Daryl squinted and his chest pressed warmly against Glenn's shoulder as he tried to look closer. "What is that?"

Glenn swallowed, fought the urge to glance back at the other man and flew forward to get a better view. "It's a pool table! And look, leather couches, full kitchen with mini bar. A pinball machine! Cool." He buzzed around the room.

Daryl nudged him so hard he almost dropped the remote. "Hey. Check for walkers."

"Right, right." He checked behind the counter, under the tables, behind the couches, all the nooks and crannies. "Looks clear, I'm coming back." By now he was getting a feel for the controls and managed to spiral around the pole as he descended.

"Show off," muttered the redneck, moving away to stoop and pick up the drone. He handed it to Glenn.

"What a good boy, Timmy! Aren'tyou, yeshyouare," Glenn whisper-gushed as he carefully pocketed it.

"Did..." Daryl paused, eyes narrowing. "Did you just babytalk a robot?"

Glenn gripped his backpack in front of him and felt his cheeks flame, thankful for the darkness. "No, of course not."

"Uh huh." Daryl sounded less than convinced and headed towards the staircase.

Glenn grabbed the solar charger he'd duct taped to the top of the truck and hastily followed the older man upstairs. It was pitch black and he fumbled with the maglite, dropping it before he managed to turn it on and gashing his arm on something as he blindly bent to retrieve it.

"Ow! Shit," he hissed as he stood.

"Glenn?"

"Ran into something, think I'm bleeding. It's alright I found a cloth."

"That's my shirt."

"Oh. Do you mind?"

_"Yes!"_

"Okay! Geez."

"Turn on the damn flashlight, Glenn. Can't see fer shit."

"It rolled away somewhere, gimme a sec."

A sigh.

"Got it! Wait, it's stuck or something."

"That's my foot."

"Oh."

"It ain't _that_ dark."

"My eyes take a little while to adjust, okay! Now just, just hold on."

Glenn crawled around a bit on his hands and knees, bending down like a puppy in play-mode to feel under the couch. His groping hand finally landed on the correct item and he clicked it on, twisting his torso around to direct the beam at Daryl.

"Found it."

Daryl's gaze flicked up to his eyes, his expression unreadable. "I can see that."

"Dude," Glenn said with a huff of laughter, getting to his feet. "Were you just staring at my ass?"

Daryl spluttered for a moment. "Shut the fuck up," he finally ground out, doing a full 180 and stomping away.

Glenn's mouth dropped open. "Wow, not even gonna try to deny it, huh. Well don't worry about it," he said airily with a smug shrug. "I'm pretty hot stuff, there's no shame in what's beyond your control."

Daryl's eye roll was a nearly tangible thing, even from across the room. "Yeah, nothin' hotter than a _ladyboy."_ He spat this out like it was an insult, like he hadn't just essentially called Glenn pretty.

Glenn made a digging motion.

Daryl was apparently grossly unamused, since he ignored him for the next hour.

They set up a couple of kerosene lanterns in the center of the room, Glenn unscrewing the mirror from the bathroom wall to place under them and increase output a bit. In the dim, flickering light, Glenn pulled his other pair of pants out of his backpack and returned to the bathroom to change. Having two pairs seemed an extravagance on the road, but the ones he was wearing were so crusty he could barely stand it. He pulled the new pair up over his slim hips and zipped the fly, making a mental note to have Daryl pull over at the next water source they passed so he could do a bit of laundry. Daryl would probably give him crap about not taking care of it before they left, but he supposed he deserved that.

He folded the old pair as he returned to the main room, carefully extracting Timmy and setting him down on the table. Daryl was already sitting at the table and looked up from his task of opening cans of creamed corn.

"Astroboy, where the hell'd you get them pants?"

Glenn was plugging Timmy in to charge and raised his head to see Daryl giving him a weird look. Then he looked down at his pants. They were a worn and ratty pair of dark brown jeans, with extra buckles and pockets to hold all of his things. Seriously his favorite freaking pants, every pocket labeled in his mind for different items.

"Don't remember, I've had them forever. Why?"

"How d'you... put 'em on?"

"Uh, one leg at a time?"

Daryl snorted. "Looks like y'used a spray can."

"You're really gonna go there?"

Daryl frowned, obviously confused.

 _"Daryl Dixon_ is judging my fashion sense? Do you even _have_ shirts with sleeves?"

"Least I don't wear girl pants!"

"They're not girl pants!" Glenn protested, highly offended but looking down at them uncertainly anyway. "I don't think."

Daryl raised an eyebrow.

"I did get them at a thrift store," Glenn admitted sheepishly. "But they're comfortable and have lots of pockets and... Wait, I don't have to explain my _pants_ to you! I like them and that's what matters."

"Whatever," Daryl concluded, clearly agreeing to disagree.

Glenn frowned at him sullenly and went to explore the kitchen and mini bar. There were a few canned goods and a bunch of rotten food in the fridge, causing him to slam it shut before too many toxic fumes could escape. The bar had a couple of bottles, one of scotch that was down to the dregs and a half full bottle of vodka. He grabbed the vodka, the cleanest looking dish towel and a couple of glasses and made his way back to the table.

The cut on his forearm was worse than he thought, four inches long and pretty deep. He frowned as he examined it in the lamplight. This was going to suck. Bracing himself, he positioned the vodka bottle over his arm and counted down from three. Then he thought better of it and switched to five, then twenty.

Daryl looked up at him, noticing his hesitation. "Here, lemme do that."

"Okay," Glenn acquiesced gratefully.

Daryl took the bottle from him and filled a glass half full. "Drink this."

Glenn accepted the glass, smelled it and scrunched his nose. Closing his nasopharynx so he wouldn't taste it as much, he kicked his head back and gulped it all down, coughing and grimacing as it scorched a path down his throat. It tasted like battery acid and _pee_.

"Shit, kid. Didn't mean all at once."

"Oh," he said weakly, eyes watering.

Daryl shook his head, corner of his mouth twitching up. "Alright, on count of three. One..." He poured the alcohol over Glenn's wound.

Glenn howled and flailed, Daryl's firm grip on his arm the only thing preventing him from knocking the bottle to the floor. "Son of a _bitch!"_

Then Daryl smirked like the total sadistic douchebag that he was. "That was the easy part."

"Easy part?" Glenn asked, voice an octave higher than normal.

"Yep. Gonna need stitches."

"Stitches?" Glenn asked, voice three octaves higher than normal.

"What I said, princess."

Glenn sat in resigned horror as Daryl held up needle and thread.

"I got tools o' my own," Daryl said, pouring more vodka into Glenn's glass. "Drink." He threaded the needle, knotting one end, and gripped Glenn's arm again. It was only as he was about to insert the needle that he noticed Glenn's trembling. "Drink," he repeated, voice and eyes softening as he rubbed small, soothing circles with his thumb.

Glenn obeyed with a shaky hand, gulping greedily like there was no tomorrow, the psychological need overriding his gag reflex. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the needle pierced his flesh.

"Fuck," he whimpered during the second stitch, the stabbing pain manageable but magnified in its unfamiliarity.

"Halfway done," he heard a few moments later, low and soothing in his ear. He was abashed to realize he was crying, tears leaking out of his scrunched up eyes, running down his painfully clenched jaw. Again and again the needle broke his skin, again and again he felt the thread being pulled, rough and fiery, through the hole. It seemed like it would never end until:

"Done."

He blinked saltwater off his lashes and peered down to see the top of Daryl's head, felt a painful tug as Daryl pulled the thread taut and knotted it, felt hot, warm breath against his overheated skin as Daryl snipped it with his teeth. Daryl poured him another drink and ruffled his hair as he went to put away the stitching materials. Glenn prodded the black zigzag crawling up his arm, the angry, tender skin, and couldn't hold back another whimper.

"Christ, Glenn, don't pick at it."

"I'm not," he lied, hastily pulling back his hand. "Thanks."

Daryl grunted and plopped down onto the couch, eyes widening comically as he sank unexpectedly deep into the cushions with a _whshh_. "You wanna thank me, bring me some whiskey," he said with a sigh, head lolling back.

"Yeah, okay." Glenn lurched to grab the bottle of Jim Beam and the second glass, offering them to Daryl. The other man took the bottle, ignoring the glass completely, and took a deep, long drag.

"Ahh," Daryl sighed appreciatively. "Good shit."

"Pretty sure they don't sell good shit in plastic bottles."

That earned Glenn a glare. He grinned weakly in response and collapsed next to Daryl on the couch, nursing his glass of vodka. He held the cool glass against the inflamed skin around his stitches, moaning softly in relief at the contact. Daryl shifted next to him and looked uncomfortable.

Glenn took a huge gulp and sighed loudly. "Y'know I never drunk vodka before," he burbled, slinging his other arm lazily across the back of the couch. "S'not so bad. I don' think it's even affecting me." He tugged on Daryl's earlobe affectionately.

Daryl scoffed loudly and swatted his hand away. "You kiddin' me? You're already smashed."

"Am _not!"_ he shouted, startled by the volume of his own voice. "Well, maybe a lil."

Daryl snorted and took another drink himself. "You're lucky I'm here."

"Y'know what, you're right! I'm gladjer my friend, Daryl!" Glenn declared ebulliently, underscoring his words with a grand sweep of his arm that knocked a dead lamp off the end table. It fell with a loud crash. "Oops."

"Ain't your _friend."_

"Duuude," Glenn slurred disapprovingly. "You're on a cross-country road trip wimme. In the friggin' apocalypse. I know you're emotionally retarded, but..." He leaned over towards Daryl with a knowing look and put a supportive hand on his shoulder. "A don'ask-don'tell _frienship_ policy? Really? Tha' doesn't strike you as like _completely_ stupid? Say it. I am your friend."

"No."

_"Say it."_

"Get off me!" Daryl snarled, shoving Glenn's hand off like it was a tarantula.

Glenn leaned back, feeling miffed and sullen. "Why y'gotta be such a _dick_ all the time, man," he complained, conveniently forgetting he had just called the other man retarded. "I'm just tryna have a tender broment with you here. Quit crappin' all over my rainbow."

Daryl looked away, jaw protruding outrageously. "M'not a dick all the time," he muttered to the far wall.

"Coulda fooled me! Dickface! Asshat! Douchenozzle! _Clubber of baby seals!"_

Daryl looked at him like he was insane. "You're insane."

"Well so are you! And we're friends!"

 _"Fine!"_ Daryl snapped, startling Glenn so much he nearly fell off the couch. "Fine we're fuckin' friends! You're my only fuckin' friend. Happy?"

"Uhh..." Glenn paused to consider. "Yeah, pretty much. Can I give you a hug?"

"No."

He reached for Daryl anyway and found himself flipped face down on the ground, groaning a muffled, "Dick," into the carpet. Daryl just smirked and propped his feet up on Glenn's back, taking a swig from his bottle. Glenn moved to sit up with a grumble, then gasped and cradled his arm, causing Daryl to pull his feet back with a frown.

"Glenn?"

"Tugged my stitches, tha's all," Glenn murmured, sitting down next Daryl quietly, subdued.

"Sorry," Daryl muttered gruffly, looking slightly guilty.

Glenn shrugged. "S'okay."

Daryl reached for him anyway, pulling a leg up onto the couch and turning sideways to face him. He held Glenn's arm gently and leaned close to examine the stitches. Glenn shuddered as he prodded the reddened skin and he looked up at his face with hidden concern.

"That hurt?" Daryl asked, watching in fascination as Glenn worried his lower lip between his teeth.

"No," Glenn breathed. He licked his lips.

Daryl realized with a start that he was staring at Glenn's mouth and quickly switched to his eyes. Glenn was staring back at him intently, eyes wide. The air around them felt thick, as if another layer had been added, some kind of invisible mind-smog, clogging his brain, confusing him. Daryl stared at brown eyes, at black pupils, the path between their gazes the only tunnel of clarity in the haze. He glanced back down at those full lips and gripped Glenn's arm tighter involuntarily.

Glenn yelped. "It does when y'do that!"

Daryl immediately let go and leaned back in bewilderment.

"Whaddya do that for," Glenn pouted, still holding his arm.

Daryl desperately fought the urge to look down at that pout. What the fuck was wrong with him. "I don't know," he said hoarsely, truthfully, mind still driving with two wheels in the ditch. He looked away and exhaled harshly, wrenching himself back onto the road, and moved to sit at the table.

"Go to sleep, I'll take first watch."

"You don't have to do that, man, I can..." There was the sound of creaking leather.

Daryl looked over his shoulder. Glenn was laying with his head on the armrest, mouth open wide enough to catch birds, let alone flies, absolutely dead to the world. Daryl lifted the boy's feet onto the couch and put a blanket over him. He brushed Glenn's hair out of his eyes, fingers grazing over the smooth skin of his temple. Suddenly realizing what he was doing, he snatched his hand away like it was burned, sat back at the table, and drained the bottle of whiskey.

This was going to be a long trip.

 

* * *

 


	13. I Don't Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn meets some dirty cannibals and Daryl tans some hides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing the rating to Mature because a) this chapter may squick some people out and b) there is some potential Darlenn lurv on the horizon.

Daryl Dixon ain't no fag. It's disgusting, unnatural (said Merle in his head). But it was alright, there was nothing homo about how he looked at Glenn. Is it _unnatural_  to appreciate a purebred coonhound, or a badass bike, or a painting, or a sunrise? Course not.

 _Nothin' unnatural 'bout noticin' a thing'at looks nice,_ he thought to himself as Glenn exited the bathroom in a baseball tee and pair of low slung cargo shorts (scrounged from one of the lockers after blowing chunks all over his favorite pants). Daryl stared at the strip of pale skin that appeared as Glenn yawned and stretched his arms above his head, back arching, sighing with pleasure as joints cracked.

_Nothin' at all._

"Getcher shit, Glenn. We're wastin' daylight."

"Yeah, yeah."

They trudged downstairs. Glenn swore up a storm as he struggled to tape the solar charger back onto the Ford, standing on the running board, straining for height on the balls of his feet, calves flexing, muscles shifting under his skin, shirt rising as it scrunched up against the truck.

"We should stock up on supplies while we're here. I wouldn't mind some aspirin and my lymph nodes feel swollen this morning," Glenn said feeling the egg shaped lumps under his jaw, telltale sign of infection. "Oh and keep an eye out for vitamin C tablets too. Last thing we need is scurvy."

Daryl nodded distractedly, too busy watching Glenn's movements to reply.

"We passed a pharmacy on the way, and there's gotta be a school around here. I say we split up, cover more ground." Glenn paused to peer over his shoulder. "Are you doing the butt thing again?"

Daryl bristled and got behind the wheel, slamming the door viciously behind him. Maybe a li'l unnatural, he admitted to himself. But Glenn was the prettiest thing around, so it was only natural. Unnaturally speakin'. Still though, he was just a kid. This needed to end.

"You look like you really need to poop," said Glenn from beside him.

Daryl looked at him darkly but didn't reply, bringing his right hand up behind the seat as he checked the rearview and backed out of the garage. He reduced his speed when they reached the pharmacy, cruising by to scope the place out. There was a walker out front chowing down on something mammalian and he could make out multiple shapes moving inside.

"How bad's your head?"

"Not bad enough. Let's go I guess."

Daryl nodded and picked up speed, heading for the highway on-ramp. He glanced over and saw Glenn cradling his arm with a miserable look on his face.

"How's your arm."

Glenn looked up at him cautiously. "It's fine," he said, lying blatantly through his _(pearly white)_ teeth.

"We'll find somethin' down the road," Daryl promised, feeling the need to say something, anything to get that look off the kid's face.

Glenn smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

They drove, leaving the bug-infested cornfields of the Missouri bootheel in the dust and entering the rolling woodlands of the Ozarks. The sun wove it's way determinedly through the trees, crashing in jagged strips on the asphalt. Fractured shards of frozen gold littered their path like debris from an angelic car wreck, as if Gabriel spilled his mug of holy water and hit a flying unicorn when he took his eyes off the road to wipe his crotch.

They drove until the needle of the gas gauge was playing limbo with E. Daryl knew he had a twenty mile buffer when the gauge said it was empty and held out for a road sign that advertised multiple gas stations before pulling off. They rolled into an Amoco that sat kitty corner to Shell and adjacent to a BP, old world competitors like dogs snarling in a circle, fighting over a bone. Now they were bones themselves.

Glenn was leaning heavily against his window catching flies again and Daryl let him sleep as he checked for gas. The Shell station had a tank that was still half full and he got started siphoning. As he worked, he let his eyes wander over the gas stations and changed his mind. Glenn should scavenge while he gassed up. He opened Glenn's door and barely caught the kid in time before he tumbled to the ground, hands snapping around his waist, noticing with a deep frown that he weighed much less than he should.

"Wahh! Who--what--" Glenn spluttered, and decked Daryl right in the face.

"Shit!" Daryl exclaimed, dropping Glenn and clamping a hand to his nose, blood spurting between his fingers.

Glenn squinted up from his crumpled heap. "Oh, it's you."

"Course it's me! Who else would it be!"

"I don't know man, I was sleeping! What do you expect?"

"Shit. I think you broke my nose," Daryl groaned in disbelief. The brat hit _hard_.

"Don't be such a baby, let me see."

Glenn got to his feet and pulled Daryl's hand away from his face, putting a crooked finger under his chin to tilt up his head. Daryl watched him, eyes hooded, as Glenn carefully prodded his nose.

"I don't think it's broken. Here," Glenn reached around and tugged the red kerchief out of Daryl's back pocket, failing to notice the older man's stance going rigid as he pressed it gently to his face.

"I coulda done that," said Daryl, voice scratchy. Their fingers brushed as he took hold of the rag himself.

Glenn cleared his throat and stepped back, feeling warm all of a sudden. "Yeah, well. You're welcome."

"For what?" Daryl asked incredulously.

"For _not_ breaking your nose!"

Daryl scoffed and turned to check the gas hose.

"Seriously, before you _attacked_ me awake I was having a really nice dream."

"I don't give a shit. Go take a look inside while I finish up."

"You were there."

Daryl looked up with a strange expression, shifting his feet almost shyly. "I was?"

"Yep. We were zip lining across the Grand Canyon and the whole thing was filled with Mountain Dew. We did it about twenty times, it was awesome. Then you found these weird berry mushroom type things and one of them turned out to be an egg for a baby orangutan that kept following us everywhere because it thought you were its mother." Glenn paused, turning thoughtful. "That part was kind of weird."

Now Daryl was looking at him as if he had just sprouted a second head that had a mullet and six eyes.

"What? It was a good dream," he insisted.

"Go. Check. Inside."

Glenn rolled his eyes and obeyed, this time alert for the sound of a bell. What he wasn't alert for was rounding an aisle and finding a gun pointed at his forehead.

"Um. Hello," he said.

The gun was attached to a man: a very greasy looking man with a stringy gray beard, pockmarked cheeks, natural skullet and one ear.

"Well, well, lookit what we gots here," sneered the man, revealing only a handful of brown teeth. His tongue lolled out in a lascivious grin and it was nearly white with bacteria. "Johnny!"

Another man popped out behind the first, this one only half the gunman's age but looking just as worse for wear, peeling scalp visible between patches of thinning hair, sores on his face.

"Yeah?"

"C'mere boy, take a gander at whutcher daddy found."

Glenn watched in frozen horror as the younger man stalked towards him, head tilted down, eyes locked on, wearing a shit eating grin that showed blackened stumps where half of his teeth should be.

"Ooh, daddy. He sure is purdy." Glenn shivered in disgust as Johnny lovingly ran a dirty hand down his arm. "Kinda scrawny, though."

"S'okay, son. Still 'nuff fer a meal'r two ah reckon."

Glenn was paralyzed, terrified, infuriated as Johnny's hand traveled further and cupped his backside with a painful grip.

"Git the rope from the truck, boy," said the old man. "We'll go home 'n see whut yer brothers've found. I expect they'll be happy as pigs in shit to see this'n."

"Sure as," the younger one crooned, kneading his ass. "Haven't had one this purdy in a _long_ time."

"Jus' go easier'n last time, y'hear? Damn near ruined half the meat on that'n."

"Tha's Bobby, not me!"

"Don't gimme yer lip, boy!" the gunman thundered, looking ready to turn the weapon on his own son. "'Less yer lookin' fer another ass whoopin'!"

"Yes, daddy," replied Johnny meekly, eyes cast down.

"Go'n now."

Johnny did as he was told, giving Glenn's butt one final squeeze before turning away and exiting the back of the store.

The old man leered at him again. "I've a mind to test y'out 'fore he gets back. Git on yer knees."

Glenn's heart hammered like a battering ram in his chest, trying to push through his ribcage. Where was Daryl?

"No."

The man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I said git _down,"_ he snarled, giving Glenn a stunning blow to the head with the butt of his gun, pistol whipping him to the floor. Glenn fell in a daze, distantly noting the sensation of blood dripping down his face. The man grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him harshly up to his knees, holding his head back.

"Yer gonna suck me off ain'tcha, wi' those purdy lips o' yourn. Suck me real good. Bite me, boy, and I'll send a bullet straight to yer brain, so help me god."

Glenn glared in helpless fury as the man began to unfasten his pants. Was this guy serious? If it came down to it, he'd bite off any and everything within reach! He bared his teeth, preparing to do just that when there was a deliciously familiar _FWHIPP_ sound.

The gun went off next to his ear, missing him by inches, an explosive noise that threatened to rattle his head to pieces. He stared unseeing at the floor, slack jawed. Everything faded out in slow motion, replaced by the sound of rushing water, whooshing air, white/brown/pink noise, a piercing whine. There was a thump as the old man collapsed in front of him, one hand still trapped in his pants, a crossbow bolt buried deep in his left eye socket.

Hands were pulling him up, arms wrapping around him, fingers fluttering all over his body, his face. Time started to speed up again, outside sounds began leaking back inside. He slowly raised his head and stared blankly into Daryl's panicked face.

"...leave you alone for five minutes! Christ! Damn it, you're bleedin' all over the place. Where'd that motherfucker hit you? Where did he touch you?" The last two words came out as a deadly hiss.

"I...I..." Glenn swallowed with a dry throat, trying to collect his thoughts.

 _"Where,_ Glenn!"

"Nowhere!" Glenn finally managed, shoving away from Daryl, pretty fucking tired of all the manhandling. He averted his gaze and hugged himself. "He hit my head but you shot him before...before... But wait, _he's_ coming back!" He looked at Daryl again in horror.

Daryl held his gaze with a calm fury. "Who."

"The grabby one! His son! They were gonna take me back to his brothers and... and..." he shuddered. "You know, _that_. And then they were going to...to... Daryl, I think they were gonna eat me!"

Daryl's eyes were cold. "Which way'd he go."

"Out the back. He was going to get stuff to tie me up with."

Without a word, Daryl stepped over the dead man's body.

"Daryl, wait!"

But he was ignored and Daryl left out the back door. Glenn eyed the corpse with disgust and leaned over it, tugging at the bolt, but it didn't budge. He tugged harder and it finally pulled free with a sickening squelch. Then he stomped on the man's head, feeling and hearing bones crunch with fierce pleasure. Stooping down, he grabbed the gun and tucked it into the back of his pants. He checked the guy's pockets and grabbed the unopened Snickers bar too.

The back door opened and he quickly brandished his machete, but it was only Daryl, striding back in casually, soaked in blood.

"Daryl, you okay?"

Daryl frowned. Glenn gestured to his clothes. He looked down and his eyes clicked with understanding. "It ain't mine."

"Oh."

"Come on," Daryl said, grabbing his good arm with a rock solid grip. "Let's get the hell outa here." He opened the passenger side door and shoved him bodily inside. "Limbs." Glenn quickly pulled his legs and elbows in and Daryl slammed the door, getting behind the wheel, tires squealing as they got back onto the road.

They drove in silence for about five minutes before Glenn snuck a glance at Daryl. He was staring straight ahead, calm demeanor starkly contrasted by his white knuckles and ticking jaw.

"Thanks," said Glenn.

"Don't," Daryl said harshly. "Don't you _ever_ thank me for that, don't--" he cut himself off, nostrils flaring. "We are gonna have a big talk about how you clear rooms. About how you _come get me_ if there's trouble. This bullshit ain't happenin' again. Ever. You understand me? _Ever_. Jesus, Glenn, if I hadn't... Jesus Christ," he swore furiously. "Shoulda never let you go in alone."

"What? How the heck were you supposed to know? This was completely my fault, next time I'll scout with Timmy first."

Daryl gave him a weird look. "It wasn't your fault, kid. You're a cub tryna be a bear. 'S why I came in the first place."

"Okay, one, I'm not a kid, damn it. I'm 23. And two, if it's not my fault then it's definitely not _your_ fault. Let's just agree it was the dead guy's fault and take steps not to repeat the experience. Okay? That sound good?" Glenn looked over with an open, earnest expression.

"You're 23?" Daryl asked, sounding both dubious and intrigued. Glenn interpreted the topic change as reluctant agreement. "Y'don't look a day over 17."

"Yeah," Glenn slumped. "I get that a lot. I've been told I'll appreciate it twenty years from now. How old are you?"

Daryl hesitated. "39," he muttered, looking oddly bashful, flicking his gaze over to Glenn.

"Ha! Oh wow, so you're an old fart, huh."

"I ain't _old!"_ Daryl looked aghast.

Glenn snickered. "It's okay, Gandalf, the wrinkles make you look distinguished."

"I ain't _wrinkled,_ you little shit."

"You are a bit. It's actually useful."

"What?"

"Well," Glenn paused, not sure if he should explain. Oh, what the heck. "Sometimes you act like you want to bite my head off, but then your eyes sort of crinkle around the edges and I know you're smiling on the inside. I like it," he added quickly. "It's nice."

Daryl looked completely incapable of processing this information, just stared at him for so long that Glenn's left hand itched to grab the wheel, just in case.

"Uh, the road?"

Daryl turned back in time to swerve around a log and cursed loudly. "Fuckin' Missouri."

"Alright, Daryl. So what's the best way to clear a room?"

"What?"

"Teach me."

* * *

A pair of calculating, bloodshot eyes watched as the blue Ford pickup pulled into a suburban neighborhood, watched in the faded, half-light of dusk as two figures entered a house.

Watched and hated.

Now? No, not now. It had to be right. It had to be perfect. Soon.

The moon rose in the night sky, surrounded by its celestial cohorts, view unhindered by the light pollution of yesteryear. The moon rose, the bugs sang, and the lone figure waited.

 

* * *

 


	14. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn finds comfort and Daryl finds something new.

"I had another great dream last night," said Glenn the next morning.

Daryl ignored him and kept oiling his bow string.

"You were there."

"Yeah?" he asked, not looking up from his task.

"Yeah. I was on my back in the bed of your truck and you came inside me like five times. It was awesome."

Daryl's head snapped up so fast his neck popped, eyes bulging, mouth dropping open. "What?" he rasped, crossbow forgotten.

Glenn grinned at him. "Okay, it was only twice, but still. You were hung like a horse, dude. Props."

Daryl stared, forgetting how to breathe.

"I wonder if you're that big in real life?"

Suddenly, Glenn was underneath him, arching and mewling like a cat, moaning like a porn star. They were in the bed of his truck and Daryl spared a passing thought that it was pretty uncomfortable. Then Glenn wrapped his legs around his back, his arms around his neck, and Daryl decided that if the kid could soldier through it then, _by_ _god_ , so could he. He propped an arm on either side of the kid's head and looked down at that angelic, exotic, pleading face.

"Daryl." A soft whimper.

Daryl kept his shoulders in place, ducking his head down to suck and lick the smooth skin on the underside of Glenn's upturned jaw. It tasted like sweat, like _skin_ , like _Glenn's_ _skin_. The thought was like a lightening bolt to his groin, a crackling energy that set him on fire. A pleased growl leaked out of him and he sank his teeth in, too shallow to break through, but deep enough to bruise, to mark. _Mine._

"Daryl!"

He couldn't believe this was happening. How was this happening? He didn't want to think about it, about all the reasons why he shouldn't. _(Shoulda known my baby bro's a buttmuncher. Ain't that right, Darleena? sneered Merle.)_ No, thinking would ruin it.

Glenn rolled his hips upward and Daryl groaned low in his throat at the friction, burying his face in the curve of that sweet, sweet neck. Glenn panted and writhed beneath him, hand lowering to grip his left shoulder and shake him slightly. He ignored it and licked the helix of Glenn's ear, grinding down with his hips, insanely hopeful that he lived up to the kid's expectations.

_"Daryl!"_

Daryl awoke with a start, squinting against the harsh glare of the noonday sun as it streamed through the window. Glenn was looking over at him with an amused expression and let go of his shoulder.

"You were making some pretty intense happy sounds there. Sorry to wake you, but you said no more than two hours."

"Yeah," said Daryl, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat to ease the pressure on his hard-on, willing himself not to turn beet red or generally _freak the fuck out_. "I did." He cleared his throat again and shook his head like a dog, trying to shift his heavy, unwanted thoughts to the bottom of the bag. "Pull over."

"Aw, come on. Let me drive a little more."

Daryl sent him a pointed look and Glenn grudgingly did as he was told.

"What were you dreaming about?" Glenn asked as they switched places (Daryl's walk around the truck a stiff one, due to the cramped space and all that), noticing with curiosity how Daryl's entire body visibly tensed at the question.

"Nothin'."

"Suuure," Glenn settled back, shaking his head. "Well, I for one had another great dream last night."

Daryl's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. _Don't say it, don't say it, don't say—_

"You were there."

"I don't wanna hear anymore o' your stupidass dreams, Glenn!" It burst from his chest before he could stop it.

Glenn shrunk back. "Okay..."

Daryl exhaled harshly through his nose. "My head's killin' me, is all," he lied, watching guiltily from the corner of his eye as Glenn's expression changed from hurt to concern.

"Oh. Never mind then."

Glenn was right. He was a dick.

"No," he sighed, "go on. I know you're dyin' to."

"Well!" started Glenn, instantly brightening. Daryl snorted in amusement. "This time we were in the Mohave Wasteland of Fallout New Vegas, torching a bunch of giant, mutant ants and radscorpians. Oh and there was a cyberdog. He actually killed more than you, because you suck with a plasma rifle. Still," Glenn added loftily, "you were a decent sidekick."

"I was the sidekick, huh?"

"Obviously."

"As I recollect it was me savin' your ass yesterday."

Glenn's grin faded and he folded slightly in on himself, body tensing, eyes glazing over in memory. Daryl mentally kicked himself. Hard.

"Course, what else is a sidekick good for," he offered cautiously, studying Glenn's body language intently for a sign of... something. He didn't know what.

Glenn remained silent but caught his gaze for a moment, surreptitiously scooting a few inches closer on the bench seat, angling his body towards Daryl. When there was no reaction, he scooted a little closer, practically sitting in the middle, thigh only a few _(burning)_ inches away from Daryl's. Only then did he seem to relax again, exhaling slowly, body sinking visibly into the shitty seat cushion.

Daryl had no idea what to say or do and settled on bringing his right elbow back to ruffle Glenn's hair, motion a little awkward and cramped. Glenn gave him the tiniest, timid smile in response, barely more than a slight curve at the corners of his mouth, nothing like his usual watermelon-slice grin, but it reached his eyes and that — that right there — _that_ was the something Daryl had been looking for.

He relaxed slightly himself, unaware he'd tensed up to begin with, relieved to know he'd done the right thing. He let his arm fall where it was and drape across the top of the seat. Then Glenn's head fell back against his arm and Daryl would have tensed again and moved, feeling all manner of stupid, if Glenn hadn't given a small sigh and closed his eyes, looking downright peaceful.

It was a good look on him.

Daryl drove on in silence, sometimes with his left hand, sometimes with his knees. Glenn's eyes remained closed, breath deepening and evening out, head sliding gradually to the side, towards Daryl's shoulder. After an hour or so, Daryl's right hand may have curled loosely around his shoulder, just to relieve some of the tension in his wrist.

There may have been another reason, but if so it was no one's business but theirs.

The afternoon passed peacefully and before he knew it they were getting low on gas again. Daryl pulled off the highway but the town's gas stations were bone dry. Shit. He was running on fumes too. He pulled up to an old abandoned Pizza Hut and parked out front, climbing into the truck bed to pull out the wooden plank that served as a ramp. With a loving pat to his bike, he steered her down the ramp and strapped a gas can to the back of the seat.

"Nice Harley."

He looked up to see Glenn leaning casually against the truck, hair tousled, hands in pockets. He looked damn good and Daryl hurried to reply, to distract himself. "This is _clearly_ a transverse parallel twin. Harley engines're longitudinal V-twins. They look totally different."

Glenn nodded in mock agreement. "Oh yes, clearly."

"Triumph Bonneville 650, British. Custom built, man, this girl is cherry."

"You're joshing me. A British bike?"

"Yeah. And?"

"A kid's crossbow and a British motorcycle. You're just destroying all my preconceptions of you," Glenn sounded amazed. "Next you'll be telling me you wear ladies underwear and listen to Beethoven."

"Wh-why would I tell you... _anything_..." Daryl spluttered, trying his best to sound outraged, "'bout my underwear!"

"Uh. It was a joke, man."

"Whatever," Daryl bit out angrily to cover up his embarrassment. "Let's clear the buildin' and then I'm goin' get gas."

"I'll come with you!"

"No, I'm faster on my own."

He tried to ignore the hurt look on Glenn's face and shoved past him to enter the restaurant. Walker free.

"You park your ass right here 'til I get back. Fact, why don't you go sit in the freezer. Safer."

"It stinks in there!"

"Then clean it out."

"What am I supposed to do in there!"

"Do your number puzzles, jack off, I don't care." Whoa, Daryl, don't go there. Focus. "I can't go as fast if I'm always lookin' at you. Lookin' out for you," he amended quickly, running a hand through his hair and rubbing his neck.

Not quickly enough, judging by Glenn's tilted head and cheeky grin. "Are you saying I distract you?"

"I'm _sayin_ ' stay put 'til I get back."

Glenn frowned mutinously but made an exaggerated show of sitting down on the floor right where he'd been standing. Daryl resisted pinching the bridge of his nose and left.

The throaty roar between his legs, the wind blowing past his face, _aw yeah_. He'd missed this. Even going only 40 mph, he'd missed this. A few minutes down the road brought him to a used car dealership and he turned in to check their tanks. Not three cars later, a distant sound caused him to straighten, ears pricked.

There it was again. It almost sounded like a voice. Coming from the north. Gas can temporarily forgotten, he mounted his bike and headed in the direction of the voice, pausing every so often to listen.

"Help!"

It was definitely a voice, definitely this direction. He parked his bike and slung the Scout off his back, crouching and stalking silently forward. He was on the outskirts of town now, both sides of the road lined with rusting barbed wire, overgrown with weeds, prob'ly left over from cattle pastures before it was turned into farmland.

"Help me! Someone, please! Anybody! _Upomoć!"_

Daryl rounded the bend and stopped at the sight before him. There was a small group of three walkers on one side of the road, stuck fast in the barbed wire fence. They were gibbering and snarling, reaching in vain across the road, working themselves into a frenzy. One looked about five minutes away from ripping its own legs off trying to free itself.

He followed their gazes to the other side of the road and saw an average built man with gray hair. He was wearing an expensive looking business suit that had seen better days, gripping a sharp black briefcase with one hand and struggling to extricate himself from the fence with the other. Apparently he'd run into it while trying to escape from the walkers. He was cursing to himself and muttering in a foreign language as he tried to free his legs, pants glistening darkly with blood.

Daryl walked straight up to him, unseen, and aimed the crossbow. "Move a muscle 'n you're a dead man. Why've you been followin' us?"

The man swiveled wildly and his face twisted in relief. "Oh, thank heavens!" he exclaimed. His solid face was lined with age, but it was easy to see how handsome he would have been in his youth. "I've been rescued!"

"I ain't rescued shit. Why y'been followin' us?"

"I don't know what you mean," the man said, looking confused.

"Answer me or die."

"What? You can't harm me, you have no evidence. This-this is barbaric!"

There was the distinct sound of the Scout's safety clicking off. "You stupid or somethin'? This ain't civilization. New game, new rules."

The man had the balls to look annoyed. "I think we can both agree that state and local government is in a bit of a slump. However, under the circumstances, there should at least be martial law in place. I demand to see your _de facto_ authority figure. I have rights."

Daryl couldn't fuckin' believe this guy. Time to set his lily-ass straight. "Listen 'ere, you cross-eyed dickweed. You want martial law? I _am_ the martial. This here," he motioned to the bow, "is all the badge I need."

The man looked at the crossbow as if he had only now noticed the bolt's potential flight path, the strained energy vibrating the wire. He didn't—or couldn't—look away, true fear leaking into his eyes.

Daryl observed this with satisfaction. "Now boutcher rights. I'll humor you. At this juncture..." The word felt foreign on his tongue, but he reckoned it was easier to intimidate suits with fancy words and hell, Merle weren't around anyways. "You got the right to know that _he needed killin'_ is a valid defense in these parts."

He paused to let his words sink in.

Two adventurous beads of sweat broke ranks from the condensation gathering on the old man's forehead. One rolled over the root of his nose before losing control and veering off into a tear trough, a big, fat, glistening, eccrine teardrop. The other rolled true and clung to the tip of his nose like mucus.

It made Daryl sick to look at.

"I—" the stranger's voice cracked and he cleared his throat, trying again. "I'm beginning to see your point, sir. What, ah... What do you suggest as my next course of action?"

Irritating fucker. "Getcher nose outta my ass. All I got's a question. You goin' bother t'learn the rules o' the game? Or am I shootin' you in the leg in time for tea with your new pals." He jerked his chin towards the walkers across the road. "They sure seem awful friendly, rare thing now'days."

He tensed and nearly fired as the man abruptly dove into his front pocket to pull out... a tiny notebook. A tiny notebook and a tiny silver pen. The stranger dabbed the tip on his tongue in a well-practiced, fluid motion and flipped to an empty page with one graceful flick of the wrist. Then he looked up expectantly, pen-tip to paper, poised and ready and completely oblivious to his newest brush with death. It was disconcerting to watch his calm features and stance, as all the while his legs bled out into the mud.

Daryl's gut was telling him this guy was a real creep, total batshit crazy to be fuckin' with an angry, armed man. Serious negative vibes. He should quit pussyfootin' around and end this now, before Glenn found out and made everything complicated. But then he looked in the man's eyes and saw resigned desperation, not something spiteful or uppity. Sincere, earnest, hopeful desperation.

If he put the other shoe on (cramped his toes but Glenn had been showing its usefulness), it sort of made sense. The guy was a straight up suit, probably used to having a pretty girl on his arm to remember things for him. Definitely new to the idea of might makin' right.

But he had offered him a choice to learn the rules or die and the guy wanted to take notes.

To his surprise (and unwilling chagrin), Daryl found some of his hostility dissolving, locked in the scope of those dead duck, basset hound eyes. Dumbass probably wasn't even trying to pick a fight, just using what he knew, hopin' and prayin' for someone like himself to come along and be willing to explain the rules.

He lowered his bow, feeling intensely awkward. "First thang: never go f'your pocket when someone's aimin' a crossbow atcher head."

The man stared blankly for a second before his eyes blew wide open and he scribbled harshly in his pad. Even from from his angle, Daryl could tell he underlined it two or twelve times.

"Second: we _barbarians_ usually tell new folk our names. We find it helps with all the talkin'at goes on." He didn't bother masking the sarcasm in his tone.

The stranger nodded and diligently recorded this statement. Again, it took a second for him to catch on. "Oh! Of course, my apologies. Bit flustered at the moment," he confessed, as if explaining to his mechanic why he was two hundred miles overdue for an oil change.

"Name's Daryl." Glenn would have been impressed that he went first.

"My name is Vjenceslav Puškarić, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He held out his hand.

Daryl didn't take it. "...Dafuq?"

This time in a confidential _actually-I prefer-Paneras-coffee-over-Starbucks_ voice: "Most people call me Vjen."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation:  
>  _veeyehn-CHESS-lahv POOSH-kah-reech_ (rolled 'r')
> 
> Please imagine Vjen is being played by Harrison Ford ^__^


	15. Keep It Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn has shitty coping skills and Daryl learns that just because that thing they say about paranoia is lame doesn't mean it's not true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first two sentences of this on a whim and then the rest just sort of spewed out. Sooo two chappies, one day whoooooo
> 
> Also give thanks to fluffmeister [lizzicleromance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzicleromance/pseuds/lizzicleromance) for her advice about stuff and things of import <3 Read her things or a pox on thee. A SIZABLE POX

Glenn was bored. Glenn was pissed. (He took another sip of vodka.) Glenn was bored and pissed and was going to _tear Daryl a new one_ when he came back. He was going to tear an assload of orifices in new, exciting and hitherto unforeseen locations. He was going to create an asshole _in Daryl's brain_. That's like the worst place for an extra asshole.

Such was the extent of Glenn's ire.

Seriously. He gets _almost_ kidnapped _one_ time by a _couple_ of rapey cannibals and suddenly Daryl's all, 'Let's put Glenn under a nice safe rock until the end of forever.' What a douchewad.

Glenn's feathers were so ruffled that if the bird metaphor was turned into a fish metaphor he'd be a pufferfish. He was a pufferfish of a bird he was so puffily, fluffily, furiously ruffled. With little spikes. He was a porcupiney pufferbird.

Forget it, the point is he was _upset_. Upset to the point of blatant incoherence, his internal monolog reaching a fervor incomprehensible even to himself.

If he had more self awareness, Glenn might have realized that at least half his anger was composed of misdirected feelings of embarrassment and fear: lingering fear over his terrifying experience that he desperately tried to ignore; anger towards Daryl for 'coddling' him and implicitly reminding him that, yes, he was actually still terrified; embarrassment over the previously mentioned feelings of fear, the blatancy with which he sought/found comfort from/in Daryl's presence, etc., _ad nauseum_. (Though that might have been the vodka.)

On top of all that, he was humiliated, guilty, over the fact that Daryl was actually right, that he felt safer under the rock. And he was afraid that this might cause Daryl to think less of him, to view him as weak, a burden, something that didn't deserve respect or admiration. He would never admit it, but Glenn would be willing to gnaw his own leg off if it earned him Daryl's respect and admiration.

After all, the only thing more badass than hunting a lion and putting its head up over the mantelpiece was convincing a lion to be friends with you. (Extra bamf points if you convinced it to come home with you, sprawl out in front of the fireplace and allow you to scratch its tummy.)

Be all that shit as it may, Glenn wasn't willing to admit a single smelly iota of it to himself. Oho no. Instead, he behaved like a big fat dumbo and sloshed through denial like an octogenarian water-walking champion, patting himself on the back all the way across the shallow end of the pool.

He sat and he fumed, his thoughts a huge jumbled ball of blackness that swarmed above his head like a tangled mass of hell-yarn, reeking of mothballs and brimstone. If he were a child being asked by a psychologist to draw his thoughts, he would have grabbed the black crayon and scribbled the shit out of the construction paper, ripping it on the center, snapping the crayon in half and chucking the shards at the shrink's head.

He was angry with the universe. He was angry with himself. Somehow it felt like the same thing.

There. The sound of Daryl's bike. _About damn time_ , he thought with vicious glee.

He ran to the front doors, steps faltering as he saw the outline of a second man in the dim light, walking astride with Daryl towards the building. The icy hand of fear gripped his chest and he backed up slowly, eyes wide, all anger instantly drained out of him, leaving him hollow and shaken. The man was a good three inches taller than Daryl, a fact he instantly and irrationally found threatening. He clambered frantically over the register counter as they entered, desperately wanting something solid between the stranger and himself.

Just in case.

He peered over the counter, taking a small amount of comfort in the realization that the strange man was in his mid-to-late 60s and Daryl could totally take him if need be. A very small amount of comfort.

"Glenn? Come 'ere, it's okay."

Glenn flinched internally at the soft edge to Daryl's voice, his expression. It was as if he _knew_ , as if he knew exactly what Glenn had been thinking. The sudden flush of embarrassment wasn't strong enough to override his need to stay just where the fuck he was, thank you.

"Come on out, Glenn."

Gritting his teeth, he steeled himself and walked around the counter but couldn't bring himself to go any nearer. Daryl walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder, face showing an uncharacteristic amount of concern.

"Hello, there," said the strange man.

They both looked at him, Daryl's hand sliding around to rest lightly on the nape of Glenn's neck as he angled his body towards Vjen.

"Who are you," Glenn asked bluntly and Daryl gently squeezed his neck.

"Vjenceslav Puškarić, young man, though my friends call me Vjen," replied the man with a hesitant smile, pronouncing his name like the first two syllables of Vienna. It sounded like he read his words off a teleprompter.

"That's Slavik. Croatian?"

The man blinked and smiled broadly. "Why, yes. Yes it is."

Glenn glanced up at Daryl's astonished face. "I get around. Don't look so surprised," he bit out, neutralizing his tone by leaning gratefully into the comforting warmth on his neck.

Daryl rolled his eyes but gave another quick squeeze before letting go, maintaining eye contact as he let his hand brush lightly down Glenn's back. He quirked a brow as Glenn stared back, mesmerized and Vjen cleared his throat pointedly.

_"Ahem_. I'm sorry to intrude on you like this, Glenn—can I call you Glenn?—but I was in a bit of a tight spot and Daryl here graciously offered his assistance."

"Daryl? Gracious?" He tried not to hiss as Daryl kicked him in the shin.

"Guy was about to be lunchmeat, already skewered 'n everythang. Speakin' of, we oughta take a look atcher legs."

Vjen nodded and opened his briefcase, barely preventing an assortment of plastic bottles to come tumbling out. He picked out one bottle that Glenn recognized as rubbing alcohol before quickly snapping the case shut.

"What is all that?" Glenn asked.

"Supplies," came the cryptic reply.

Glenn narrowed his eyes suspiciously but chose not to comment.

After rolling up Vjen's pant legs, a quick inspection of his calves showed that stitches would not be necessary, just an alcohol rinse and wrapping to prevent infection. Vjen was oddly silent during the whole process, not a hiss of pain, not a flinch.

"We still need fuel," Daryl said when they were finished. "No offense, old man, but there's no way in hell I'm leavin' you alone with Glenn, or our shit. So you're comin' with me." Glenn's eyes widened and he looked ready to protest but Daryl silenced him with a bump of his shoulder. "We'll be right back, promise."

Glenn bit his lip and nodded, sitting down far too meekly for Daryl's liking, arms wrapping around himself. There was somethin' wrong with the kid, he knew there was, but it would have to wait. He jerked his head and Vjen followed him out the door, not failing to notice how Glenn scrambled to lock it as soon as they exited. Somethin' was wrong, it was like he—no. Later, he reminded himself harshly.

They found a car with a full tank and siphoned in silence, Vjen standing off to the side and watching as Daryl worked.

"Your friend seems a bit...nervous," Vjen commented eventually.

Daryl looked up with a dangerous frown. "Best mind your own business," he grumbled.

"It's not my intention to pry, merely to say that I... Well, I think I may understand your reluctance to trust strange men. He's a beautiful boy." Vjen added the last sentence with a calculating look, as if gauging his reaction.

This time Daryl made a sound very close to a literal growl, standing ramrod straight and crowding into Vjen's space, angry vibe more than making up for the difference in height. _"Th'fuck you tryna say?"_

"I'm trying to tell you I'm not a threat to him! Or to you. I understand your caution, but please don't treat me as though I'm going to do something worse than steal your _food."_ The words were loaded by a meaningful look. "I find the notion highly offensive."

And Daryl would be damned, but the man _did_ look offended. So much so that he couldn't help but half-believe him.

"Yeah, well," he acknowledged. "He had a pretty rough day yesterday. Woulda been rough on anybody. I look out for 'im."

Vjen gave him a searching look and then nodded, as if reaching a decision. "I believe you. Like I said, I don't mean to pry but frankly, from what I saw of you two, I wanted to make sure he wasn't another Patty Hearst."

Daryl looked at him blankly.

"Stockholm Syndrome?"

Daryl's face swiftly morphed from blank to appalled. _"Hell_ no, man! I'm his _friend!"_ he exclaimed (narrowly stopping himself from adding, "He _said_  so!"). "I _look out_ for 'im!"

"As you said. I believe you."

"Damn straight you do! Jesus, we're done here." And with that Daryl got on the bike and tore away, satisfied by the foreign expletives tumbling out of the other man's mouth as he barely managed to climb on behind him. Serves him right.

His satisfaction drained away, replaced by the exact opposite feeling as they neared the restaurant. There was a black monster truck backed up behind the building, with two men lurching towards it, carrying a huge sack between them.

A huge, black, man-sized sack that was struggling wildly and _screaming his name._

Daryl's vision turned red. Everything seemed to happen at once.

He floored his bike and plowed right into the man that had been holding Glenn's feet, just after they managed to throw him into the truck. Daryl braked in a wide arc to the smell of burning rubber and dove towards the man on the ground, not noticing or caring as his bike crashed over onto its side. He gripped the man's shirt, pulled him up and punched him once, twice, three times, throwing him back down and hearing his skull crack against the concrete.

"Glenn!" he shouted, whipping out his crossbow and stumbling towards the truck, but it was too late. The first man had already climbed into the cab and was starting the engine. Glenn had managed to pop his head and one arm out of the body bag he'd been stuffed into, eyes shining bright with terror, a paradoxical grin of hope nearly splitting his face in two as his eyes landed on Daryl.

"Daryl!" Glenn reached with his freed hand, fingers splayed and twitching as he extended himself as far as possible.

"Glenn!" Daryl shouted again. "Take my hand!" He lunged for him and their fingertips brushed just as their attacker floored it, guffaws and hoots of laughter echoing through the night as the truck roared away in a cloud of diesel fumes.

Daryl screamed Glenn's name until he was hoarse, until his throat burned, but it was too late.

Glenn was gone.

It had happened so fast. Daryl was blindsided. His mind was reeling, struggling, failing to understand that Glenn was fuckin' _gone_. No, not just gone. Worse.

_Taken_.

What if he never saw him again? He felt bile rise in his throat. How the hell was he supposed to _find_ him? Was this it? The end of everything, right here, right now? Was he alone? After all this and Glenn didn't even know that he was—that he wanted—that he...

**_Fuck._ **

A loud gurgle broke through his thoughts.

He turned and looked down at the man on the ground: bleeding, wheezing, but still very much alive.

Daryl's eyes narrowed and he cracked his knuckles with a single flex of his fist. He would fix this. He would find Glenn and everything would work out. It had to. It _had_ to.

_Hold on, Glenn._

He advanced on the man.

 

* * *

 

A great song with a **kitty** vid.  
I ask you, does it get better?  
 _(Hint: No)_


	16. The Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Everyone has a pretty shitty morning (excluding the cannibals, who have different definitions of both 'pretty' and 'shitty'). Questa è la vita, baby.

This time Vjen _did_ need stitches.

Turns out the Bonneville had clipped Vjen but good when it fell, a few more inches and it would have crushed his leg beyond repair. He took Daryl's ministrations in stride, much better than Glenn had (Daryl's chest clenched when he remembered, _NO_ this was _nothing_ like that) and carried on with the same unconcerned attitude he always did. He even chuckled at his own joke halfway through, which, combined with his lazy attitude, Daryl found mighty suspicious.

"Listen up, _professor_ , we're in some deep shit," he said as soon as he finished. "If you plan on helpin' then you needa lay off whatever you're takin'."

The smile dropped off the old man's face. "Is it that obvious?" he murmured.

"What, you think I'm some kinda asshole? I know stoned when I see it."

Vjen sighed heavily. "My wife's pain medication... Seemed a shame for it go to waste after...after _she_ did. They're quite nice. I can see the black market appeal." He smiled again.

"Yeah, heroin is nice too, why don'tcha go try _that_. Meanwhile I'mma go do somethin' _useful."_

He left a troubled looking Vjen and stomped into the large walk-in freezer where their prisoner was currently tied to a chair. Time to see if Sleepin' Fugly had awakened from his second pain-induced nap.

The night before, Daryl had nearly exploded in pride when he'd entered the restaurant to see a body underneath one of the tables, Glenn's machete stuck fast in the guy's neck. Damn near decapitated him. Daryl had dragged the corpse into the freezer and left it sitting grotesquely upright next to the prisoner, which (judging by how often the man looked over at it) seemed to be slowly eroding his morale, just like Daryl wanted. Merle had taught him that trick. Infuriatingly, despite the intimidation and the beatings, he hadn't learned anything about where they had taken Glenn and the hours were ticking by dangerously fast.

"I wanna know _where_ , you son of a bitch!" he snarled, giving the prisoner a right hook/uppercut combo that split his knuckles. The man stared up at him with wild eyes and spat blood in his face with a shiny red grin. Of course Daryl had to send a ferocious, debilitating kick to his kneecap for that. He was rewarded with a pained howl. _"Where!"_

This went on for a good hour before the man was once again rendered unconscious. Daryl glowered as he stalked back out to the main room.

"This piece o' shit's our only lead, but he's tougher'n my uncle's jerky," he said with an exhausted sigh, rotating his arm and rubbing his sore shoulder. He flexed his bloodied knuckles with a wince. "He won't go more specific than 'the college'. A whole fuckin' campus, how the hell is that gonna help us." He looked at the ground, voice lowering to a mumble. "Wish Merle were here."

"Give me some lye and ten minutes. Or some hydrofluoric acid and ten hours, depending on his pain threshold," said Vjen grimly. "I can make him talk." He motioned to his briefcase meaningfully.

Daryl stared at him. "Damn, old man, that's...fuckin' creepy. Y'just carry that shit around with you?"

Instead of embarrassed, Vjen looked perversely pleased. "Well, yes," he said modestly. "When I was a child we used to liquefy dead livestock with lye. Guns make me uncomfortable you see and I thought it might be useful as a weapon."

"Vjen."

"As for the hydrofluoric acid, I spent my undergraduate years as a part-time preventative maintenance worker for the university. We were given weak solutions to use as HVAC coil cleaner. It permeates skin with no ill effects, but it absolutely _loves_ calcium," he explained, looking far too happy about the subject.

"Vjen, we don't—"

"Eats your skeleton from the inside out, quite painful. You know..." He looked off to the side with a thoughtful air. "Hindsight being what it is, I can’t _believe_ what I exposed myself to for $1.50 an hour."

 _"God damnit,_ Vjen, _save it!_ This ain't the time!" Daryl tossed Vjen one of the cannibal's walkie-talkies, rolling his eyes as the old man fumbled and it clattered to the floor. "Work your mad scientist mojo, I'm goin' on ahead, I'll check in when I get there. Watch yourself, he's a slippery bastard."

Vjen gripped the radio, nodded gravely, picked up his briefcase and strode into the prisoner's room, metal door slamming ominously shut behind him.

It only took Daryl about ten minutes to follow signs to the local campus (pretty depressing considering how long it took to find out where to go), pulling up at the student union building and running in to grab a map of the area. He walked back out into the morning light and leaned against a wooden post that used to be tacked with flyers when the place was alive.

Opening the map, he studied it for a moment before pulling out his walkie-talkie. "Hey! Old timer." Nothing. "Y'there? Talk to me."

There was a burst of static and a crackled: _"Hello. Hello? Yes, Daryl, I'm here. You'll be pleased to know that this helpful young man has chosen to share your friend's location."_ He was interrupted by a loud, gurgling moan. _"Look,"_ Vjen's voice became muffled, as if he was holding the radio away from himself, _"if you don't mind, I'm trying to have a conversation."_

 _"F-fuck you!"_ shouted a distant voice, broken and hoarse.

There was an agonized scream.

 _"Maybe that will teach you to mind your language, you filthy degenerate. My ears are not a toilet."_ A groan, a whimper, more static. Daryl thought back a bit nervously to all the times that he'd cussed Vjen out in the past eight hours. _"Apologies, my boy!"_ Vjen's voice came back full volume. _"As I was saying, I've found Glenn's location. He's being held in the basement of the university library."_

Daryl exhaled harshly. "Which? There's like five of 'em."

 _"Is that a fact. Have you been withholding information?"_ Voice muffled again. _"I thought we'd already gone over this."_

 _"No! No, I haven't I swear, please—AHH!"_ More screams and broken sobbing, with words mumbled between heaving breaths that Daryl couldn't make out.

_"He says it's the only library next to a church. I hope that's all you need because I've used my entire reserve of vinegar and he loses all coherence without it."_

"Uh," Daryl paused. "That's all I need, but you know what, I'd feel a whole lot better if his spine were gone tomorrow. Why don't you spill a few drops o' that hyflo acid shit on 'im. Think of it as an experiment. Then getcher ass over here."

 _"If you think that's best,"_ said Vjen breezily. _"I will arrive there shortly."_

There was a desperate cry just as the static cut off and Daryl stared at the radio. _Helpless old man my ass,_ he thought, shaking his head. He studied the map again. Uh... _There_. The medical library, beside an old catholic chapel. That must be where they were holding Glenn.

He ran.

 

Meanwhile, Glenn was coming to with a groan, head pounding, limbs aching. He frowned confusedly as he tried to scratch his nose but was unable to move his arm. He tried to move his other arm, then his legs, then he opened his eyes and was met with blackness. A blindfold? He licked his lips, tasted blood, and tried to feel his surroundings. He was shackled vertically to something, a shelf, spread out like a starfish wearing only his shorts. He felt air woosh against his bare chest and panic rose inside him.

"Mornin', Sleepin' Beauty," breathed a baritone voice in his ear, accompanied by a waft of body odor that would have burned the nose off a lesser man. "Sorry 'bout the straps, darlin', but it's a necessary precaution. Can't have you runnin', now can we?"

"What do you want?" he croaked.

The blindfold was ripped off his head and a tall, barrel-chested hulk of a man stood before him. Shaved head, full beard, he looked like a swamp viking, Norse warlord of the crackhead bayous. "Oh, I think you already know the answer to that," the man said, dragging a buck knife lightly across Glenn's hip and tapping his inner thigh with the edge of the blade. Glenn shuddered in revulsion and the man laughed. "Don' worry, boyo, we ain't touchin' ya...least not 'til _he_ gets here to enjoy the show." The man's face hardened and his mouth twisted into an ugly snarl.

"Who?" Glenn asked.

"Your buttbuddy, the archer. That _sick fuck_ archer, that _monster_. He _killed_ my daddy, he _killed_ my _favorite brother,_ " the man's voice choked off with a surprisingly effeminate sob. "Do you know what that's like?" he hissed furiously. "That sick _fuck_ beat my li'l baby brother to _death_ , cracked Johnny's head open like a _WALNUT."_ (Glenn barely restrained a snort of very inappropriate laughter.) "Broke both 'is arms! It was 'orrible, _'orrible!_ So you know what I says to myself? I says to myself, I says, _Bobby_..." He inhaled deeply through his nose, calming himself. "Bobby, you goin' follow these motherfuckers. You're gonna catch 'em and then you're gonna  _show - them - what's - what."_

Glenn was hard pressed to feel sympathy for a rapey cannibal, but wisely chose to keep this to himself. "You rape and eat people. I don't give a shit about your feelings." Well, he wisely _considered_ keeping it to himself. "You're a dead man walking, because Daryl's coming for me!"

"That's what I'm countin' on, you mouthy bitch. 'S why you're here, ain't it? Well, that and all the fun I'm gonna have with you," Bobby said, stroking his hair.

"Bobby."

Glenn peered into the gloom and made out another figure standing in the doorway to the stairwell.

"What _is_ it, Jeb? I'm busy."

"Movement outside. Think it's him."

"Ah. Good," said Bobby with a shit eating grin. "He won't know what hit 'im."

Glenn watched in horror as they both hid. _"Daryl!"_ he shouted at the top of his lungs. _"Get out of here, it's a trap! Get out—"_ A vicious backhand from Bobby plunged his world into darkness once again and he sagged against his bindings.

If Glenn had been awake for thirty seconds longer he would have seen Daryl come flying down the stairs and burst into the basement like a scuzzy demon, hellfire blazing in his eyes like a promise, an omen of the royal asskicking to come. The Scout sang its squeaky, whistling dirge as Daryl shot five bolts in rapid fire progression, arm pinwheeling as he loaded and shot, loaded and shot, loaded and shot.

"Jebediah!" Bobby howled, face twisting as he rushed to his stinky brother who now resembled a rather unthreatening pin cushion. Only after he ran ten feet did he seem to notice the bolt protruding from his own thigh. He ripped it out and threw it away with a derisive chuff of hysterical laughter.

Daryl slung back his empty crossbow, ran up to the giant man and jabbed him in the eye with his left fist, crossing with a right punch to the jaw. The huge man just laughed harder. Daryl hit him in the solar plexus, in the kidneys, every sensitive spot he could think of, remembering the headshot combos that Merle had taught him when they were kids.

_Jab - cross - hook - uppercut - elbow._

The guy just stood there and _took it,_ never flinching, smile never dropping from his face. Daryl's blood ran cold as the other man's elbow pulled back.

_Uh oh._

The hit sent him tumbling head over heels across the room, landing in a sprawled heap at Glenn's feet. He took advantage of the moment and used his hunting knife to slice the leather straps binding Glenn's ankles before Bobby reached him, gripping his throat and lifting him up into midair with one arm. Daryl's eyes bulged at the constriction, vision bursting with stars and threatening to white out, but he managed to get in a decent swipe with the knife. Bobby yelped in pain as it cut a deep slash across his face and released Daryl, hands going to his face reflexively.

Daryl coughed and wheezed, ignoring the urge to hold his throat. He squinted through his good eye (the other one now swollen shut) and focused on cutting Glenn's wrist straps. It only took a few seconds before the kid collapsed in a tangle of limbs, dragging Daryl down with him. He barely managed to keep Glenn's _(bloody, too bloody)_ head from cracking into the ground. Then he twisted around to grab his knife again but Bobby kicked his hand like a soccer ball, breaking at least two of his fingers, and he cried out in pain as the knife skittered across the floor, far beyond reach.

Then Bobby pulled out a gun. "I was hopin' it wouldn't come to this, kinda feels like cheatin', but you're a real pain in the ass."

Daryl sat there on the floor, tilting up Glenn's form with effort and hugging it with his broken hand. "You don't have to do this! Come on, you know this ain't _right!"_ he tried desperately, appeal-to-morality the only card left in his deck.

Bobby paused. "Ain't _right?"_ He scrunched up his face, perilously close to being deep in thought. "Naww, you can't trick me that easy, asshole."

Daryl watched Bobby approach helplessly and gripped Glenn's unconscious body tighter against his chest. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

"I'm gonna eat you alive, beautiful. I'm gonna—"

"Step away from them."

Bobby swiveled around and Daryl craned his neck to see Vjen standing silhouetted in the doorway, suit flapping ridiculously around him, a hot pink water pistol pointed directly at their assailant's head.

_A hot pink water pistol._

Daryl groaned and let his head fall with a _thunk_ against Glenn's forehead. So much for backup.

"The hell?" Bobby sneered and laughed, obviously thinking the same thing. "What the fuck, old man, you gonna squirt me to death? Ooh, I'm scared!" he crowed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "This ain't Oz, bitch. When I'm done with them maybe I'll skull fuck you too, just for shits and gigg—"

Vjen pulled the pink trigger four times and Bobby broke off with a scream, gun falling to the ground as the grotesque sound of sizzling flesh filled the air. He lurched back around and took a shaky step towards Daryl and Glenn, hands held up to his face.

His face that was rapidly _melting away._

The screaming, the _smell_. Daryl scuttled backwards in horror before dropping Glenn and lunging forward, grabbing the gun and shooting him straight through the heart.

There was a thud. The screaming stopped, but the sizzling didn't.

He grabbed Glenn, strained muscles flaring in pain, and scrambled out of the room, not stopping to think until he'd stumbled all the way up the stairs. He burst out of the building and collapsed with his burden on the steps outside, arms shaking as he gasped for breath.

"Well, I'm glad that worked," came a voice behind him. He tilted his head to the side to see Vjen looking very pleased with himself.

Then he groaned and passed out with Glenn in his arms.

 

* * *

 

_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three cheers for melting rapey cannibals with acid! \\(^_^)/
> 
> Yeah yeah, lye is a _base_. Whatever, you know what I mean.


	17. Loud Pipes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn still has a few tricks up his sleeve and Daryl does his best, bless him. Vjen just piddles around and does his thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't come out like I planned, but I think it turned out okay.

"Alright, I wantcha to hit me."

"No."

"Damn it, Glenn. Hit me!"

"No!"

Somehow Daryl had gotten it into his head that Glenn needed self-defense lessons, an idea that Glenn was less than happy about. He may not have been UFC material, but damn it he wasn't a friggin' damsel in distress either. It wasn't that he didn't know what to do, _per se_ , he was just inexperienced. He had no muscle memory. Without that, it's ridiculously easy to forget what to do in the heat of the moment when you're actually, you know, _being attacked_ by someone.

"I'm gonna stomp your ass if you don't!" Daryl tried again.

No response. Unless you counted the sulky frown.

"I'm gonna make you suck my dick!"

Glenn struck without thinking, using his right hand to palm heel Daryl under the chin, left hand snapping to his side in a fist for counterbalance.

Daryl's head snapped back painfully and he stumbled, holding up a defensive hand. _"Wait_ , Glenn. Shit. Didn't know you were gonna go all kung fu on my ass."

"I told you I'm fine. If I did that hard enough to your nose it would shove the bone straight up into your brain. Kaputski."

"Where'd you _learn_ that?"

Glenn shrugged. "Got a black belt in Tae Kwon Do," he mumbled under his breath.

"Say _what?"_

"I don't like to tell people, okay! It doesn't really count, got it like ten years ago. We didn't even do full contact sparring. Or ground fighting. All I did was kick the air and break a few boards. Few hundred bucks later, _ta da_. Worthless black belt."

Daryl looked intrigued. "Obviously you 'member somethin'. What else?"

"Uh, well, for practical use, mainly just palm-heels to the face, hand-spears to the throat and what to do if you're grabbed from behind. I've never actually used them though. Not in real life. It's totally different."

"Show me."

"Well...okay." Glenn turned his back to Daryl, feeling very self-conscious. "Grab my shoulder. Same side or across the body, doesn't matter."

Glenn felt a hand latch firmly onto his right shoulder. He spun clockwise, lifting his right arm and wrapping it around Daryl's, holding and lifting underneath the elbow to lock the joint in place. Then he mimicked a palm-heel to Daryl's nose with his left hand and a knee to the groin.

Daryl's face remained carefully blank. "What else?"

"It's pretty much the same for two-handed shoulder grabs. How about," he turned around again, heart rate increasing, "you grab me around the waist."

There was a long beat before Daryl's arms slowly snaked around him, hands locking below his navel. There was a very obvious and intentional space between their bodies, which Glenn found oddly disappointing. Whatever. He made a fist, raising his middle finger so that just the middle knuckle was protruding, and did about four things at once.

He bent his legs into a crouch and rapped the back of Daryl's hand hard with his knuckle. Daryl reflexively loosened his grip and bent slightly over Glenn, which Glenn took advantage of by standing straight back up with a light headbutt to the chin, grabbing Daryl's hand and rolling down it and away to the side, unfolding it. Now Daryl was stunned, hunched, head back, with his arm fully extended and Glenn had a firm grip on his wrist and shoulder. Glenn kneed him in the gut and then swept Daryl's feet out from under him, following through on the takedown by pushing Daryl's shoulder all the way to the ground.

Daryl wheezed and looked up at him, slightly awed, but Glenn didn't notice. He was too busy puffing up and feeling like a total badass. _That's_ what he should have done to those douchebags yesterday. _That's_ what he _could_ have done. If he _wanted_ to. Yeah.

 _YEAH_.

"That felt...good," Glenn said with a slow smile. "But it was too slow. Again."

Daryl just coughed in reply. Glenn turned around and waited as Daryl got to his feet, waited until arms wrapped around him again. This time he could feel Daryl's chest pressed against his back, could feel Daryl's breath puffing lightly against his temple. The envelope of air surrounding them was buzzing. That was nice, but hitting him would be nicer. He did the escape again, this time inadvertently imagining it was the cannibal viking he was escaping from. All too easily, his imagination became real.

This time, he _cracked_ Daryl's hand with his knuckle ("shit!"), gave him a vicious actual headbutt ("fuck!"), kneed his gut with the intent to squish organs ("oof!") and after the takedown, he kept hold of Daryl's arm, rotated it and pressed down on the wrist with that perfect angle and amount of pressure to shoot lightning bolts of pain down the arm.

Bobby started yelping and wiggling so Glenn stepped over him and scraped his boots down his sides, pinching skin between his boots and the ground, pinning him in place. There was another pained cry and Glenn fucking _ate it up_. He ate it all up and wanted more. He wanted fucking _more_ because it was _delicious_ and he increased pressure on the wrist without mercy. He was distantly aware of the fact that he was screaming.

Then: "I think that's quite enough. Let him go." It was Vjen, sounding very stern.

The red haze suddenly lifted and Glenn jumped away from Daryl in alarm. "I'm so sorry! Oh god, Daryl, I'm sorry." He lunged to help him up. "I don't know what happened, I just lost it, man. I don't know, I'm an idiot. Are you okay? I can't believe that just happened. Did I hurt you?"

Daryl scoffed in the negatory, but he winced as he got to his feet. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm fine." He rubbed his arm and held it delicately, hand hanging limp. "Gotta say, didn't know you had that in you."

"Neither did I," said Glenn, feeling incredibly guilty. "Wait a second, oh my god, your _hand_. I'm such an asshole!" It was true. The hand Daryl was carefully cradling, trying so hard not to move, was the bandaged and splinted hand that Daryl had _broken_ while _saving Glenn's ass_. "I feel so bad right now. I don't even know what to say." He looked at Daryl pleadingly, wishing a Floridian sinkhole would appear directly beneath him.

"'S okay," said Daryl with a soft shrug, infuriatingly forgiving. "Least it's outa your system now. Better, right? That was the plan anyways. Damn but you got some loud pipes on you."

Glenn was at a loss for words. _That_ was the plan? Daryl had, what, offered himself up as a punching bag just to cheer him up? That was so messed up and thoughtful at the same time that Glenn could seriously not cope with it.

"Yes...but...NO. No, now I feel worse in a totally different way! You shouldn't have let me do that. That's a terrible solution."

"Why?"

"I would _much_ rather feel bad than hurt you. Obviously."

Daryl looked -- of all things -- _confused_ at that. Actually, sincerely, pathetically confused, like Glenn had just spoken in Korean, like the concepts of someone being upset and someone else being physically hurt were one and the same to him, like Glenn was blowing his mind.

The urge to hug him was so strong that all the muscles in Glenn's arms tensed in restraint. He swallowed thickly. "Daryl...why would you think..." He broke off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

Daryl was staring at him.

"I'm going to go inside now," said Vjen far too loudly, causing them both to jump. "You boys talk it out. I'm too old for this."

They kept staring silently at each other as Vjen scuttled back inside in full-retreat mode.

Glenn tried to formulate his thoughts. "You'd never hit me out of anger, right?" Daryl looked at him like he was an idiot. "Well," he amended. "I mean _really_ hit me. You'd never actually _hurt_ me out of anger. Right?"

"Why the fuck would you even ask me that?" Daryl sounded furious. "Course not!"

"Then why'd you think _I_ want to?"

"Cuz that's what people do!"

"People? What people?"

"People, man! Other people!"

"Who?"

"Anyone else!" Now Daryl had that look again, like he regretted his words.

"Well I'm not them," said Glenn fiercely, an inkling of understanding starting to trickle into his head. "You would never hurt me and I would never hurt you. Not intentionally. Not _really_. Not ever."

Daryl was doing that creepy mind-gazing thing again.

"And if you ever let me beat the crap out of you again, I'm going to beat the crap out of you. Understand me?" Glenn did his best to look intimidating.

Daryl rolled his eyes, mouth quirking up. "Kid, what have I told you 'bout your lady swings?"

"I'm not a kid!"

"Whatever y'say, short round. Maybe you're right. You do kinda need a shave. There's mold growin' on your face."

"Stop distracting me. I'm serious about this."

"Then do us both a favor and shutcher mouth."

"But--"

 _"Enough_ , Glenn. I ain't talkin' bout this no more."

Glenn frowned but kept his mouth shut, silently following Daryl back inside the restaurant. Vjen was singing softly to himself, some folk song in a different language, while he sat on the dirty floor happily rifling through Glenn's backpack.

"Hey!" Glenn ran and snatched it up, barely managing to avoid upending it and dumping all of his wonderful things onto the ground. "Stay out of my stuff!" he said angrily.

"I must say, Glenn, I haven't the faintest idea what most of this is," said Vjen, sounding blissfully unconcerned. "What possible use could it have?"

"It's about as useful as carrying around a briefcase full of acid."

"But that _is_ useful, as I think I proved yesterday."

"Uh, yeah. Exactly."

A pause. "Ah."

Glenn rolled his eyes and nudged Daryl's side with his elbow, glancing over with a quirked brow as if to say 'I won that random exchange, what a silly old fart hahaha' but Daryl didn't hold up his end of the eye convo. Instead he flinched with a quiet hiss and Glenn jerked his arm back.

"Daryl, what's wrong."

"Nothin'."

Glenn sighed loudly in exasperation. "You know, you're a really crappy liar. Come here." He turned resolutely around and walked around the register counter to the far corner where they had set up a med station of sorts. Daryl padded softly behind him and they could both hear Vjen banging around at the far end of the building, doing who knows what.

Glenn scooted the chair up against the back of the counter and pulled a kerosene lamp closer.

"Sit."

Daryl stared at him mulishly.

Glenn narrowed his eyes. _"Sit."_

Because he was physically incapable of doing what he was told without bitching about it, Daryl gave an offended huff as he sat down.

"Take off your shirt."

Daryl's eyes widened like a tarsier and he looked fully prepared to refuse, before reaching down with his one good hand and fiddling with the hem of his shirt awkwardly.

"Oh shit, my bad." Glenn brushed Daryl's hand away and grabbed the hem of the shirt himself, raising it to the bottom of Daryl's rib cage. "Arms up." Daryl complied and Glenn pulled it off over his head, balled it up and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder.

"Hey!"

"Daryl, don't even. That thing was literally rotting on your body. See this?" Glenn rubbed some crumbly shit between his fingers. "That used to be your shirt. It's _disintegrating."_ Daryl huffed again and looked away. _"And_ it smelled like ass."

"Oh, well, 'scuse me for not smellin' like a daisy. Forgot to stock up on Old Spice when the world ended."

"You wouldn't be joking about it if you had to sit next to yourself in the truck all day. It's like a biohazard zone in there."

"Actually, Glenn, that's what I do _all the time_. Besides, you didn't seem to mind when you was gettin' all snuggly the other day," said Daryl mockingly.

Glenn stiffened and ducked his head to examine Daryl's sides. "Shut up."

Daryl snorted, followed by a yelp at the first poke. "Watch it!"

"Sorry! Sorry. Shit, Daryl, your sides are all messed up." And they were. The skin was rapidly turning a rainbow of colors and there was a harsh line of blood blisters running down the center on both sides. "Should I pop them?" he asked, already moving away to get something pokey.

A hand latched onto his arm and yanked him back and down. He nearly tumbled into Daryl's lap and his face burned hotly as Daryl held him in place a few inches away from his chest. His sweaty, chiseled chest that really didn't smell nearly as bad as Glenn had been teasing. It was actually a nice chest, sharply defined collar bone, light dusting of hair across the pecs. The pecs really weren't too bad, pretty nice as pecs go. They looked...firm. The slow, gentle rise and fall of his breathing was almost hypnotic.

Glenn wondered what they would feel like under his palms, if he could feel muscles shift as Daryl flexed. He began to reach out without thinking.

"Hell no, man," said Daryl and Glenn snatched back his evil traitorous hands, heart nearly exploding before he realized Daryl was still talking about the blisters. Wow, _that_ was officially a freaky thing that just happened. "I ain't dyin' from an infection cuz o' your stupid ass." Daryl paused as he finally noticed Glenn's precarious position and immediately released his arm, clearing his throat. "Leave 'em be," he said gruffly. "They'll heal."

"At least let me wrap them."

"Why would I want rough cloth 'n shit _rubbin' against_ my blisters."

"Well, when you say it like that it sounds dumb!"

"That's cuz it _is_ \--" Daryl cut himself off and took a deep breath. "Look, I know you're tryna help. But I been a helluva lot worse off before and I'm doin' just fine. Stop fussin' like an old woman."

"It's not fussing. It's called _concern_ , Daryl. Rational, friendly concern."

"I don't need your _concern."_

"No one said you did, you big--look. Just. Let me clean up these cuts a bit." He grabbed the rubbing alcohol and a clean pad (all courtesy of Vjen) and gamely tried to swipe it across the angriest looking scratches on Daryl's torso.

"Stop, Glenn," said Daryl, trying to swat his hands away.

"If you just let me--"

"Get _off."_

"Would you sit _still_ so I can--"

"No, damnit! You are so--"

It was pretty much a wrestling, slap fest at that point, until the bottle was knocked to the floor and rolled under the chair. Then Glenn ducked down to grab it before too much could spill and Daryl became rigid as iron. Glenn propped it up and closed it, sitting back on his heels and realizing with a start that he had been bracketing Daryl's thighs with his arms and very nearly _put his head in Daryl's lap._ He flicked his gaze upward, tomato-faced and breathless, anxious to see Daryl's reaction.

Daryl was staring him down with dark, hooded eyes, chest moving visibly faster than before. Glenn found it strangely impossible to look away from those stupidly deep blue eyes, instantly reminded of that time in the forest when they were wrestling in the loam. You could get lost in eyes like that. What did Daryl see? He slowly, unconsciously rose onto his knees, watching Daryl's eyes getting closer and bigger. Were they bigger because he was closer, or did they widen too?

Daryl leaned forward the tiniest bit and that was nice, that was good. It was easier to see his eyes that way. From this distance he could see flecks of gray and, was that green? Glenn couldn't be sure. He needed to be closer. Closer...

"Boys! Quick! Help me!"

The spell broke. They ran across the building to where Vjen was staggering towards them carrying four giant jars.

"Vjen? What the hell, we thought you were in trouble or somethin'," said Daryl, sounding incredibly put out.

"I've found a treasure trove! A whole shelf devoted to pepperoncini!" Vjen's eyes shone with pure joy. "Well, don't just stand there like a couple of nitwits. Go and get the rest! We must take them with us!"

"You're a crazy old bastard, y'know that," muttered Daryl, taking the jars before Vjen could drop them and make a gigantic mess.

"That's no way to talk to your elders. While you two were off in the corner making moon eyes at each other, I was being productive and finding us supplies."

"I don't think ten jars of hot peppers really counts as supplies," said Glenn.

"Forget the _peppers!"_ burst Daryl, much louder than the situation warranted. He gave Glenn a very weird look. "We weren't makin'... _moon eyes!"_

"Wait. What? Oh, yeah! I mean, no! I mean...what he said!" Glenn spluttered unconvincingly. Fail. Daryl shot him a severe 'you're not helping' look and he smiled back weakly.

Vjen raised both caterpillar eyebrows, pursed his lips and gave a partial eye roll. In a word, his face said this: skeptical.

"Are you both done being belligerent? Yes?"

Daryl and Glenn both opened their mouths to reply.

"Good," Vjen continued without missing a beat and they shut them again in consternation. "Now the rest of the jars are behind the dead man so I can't get at them. Not the headless one, the boneless one. Get to it." And with that he brushed regally past them to fiddle with the pop dispenser, ignoring them completely.

Glenn looked over at Daryl. "Boneless one?"

"Long story, I'll tell ya later."

 

* * *

 


	18. Good Ol' Fashion Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Nellie gets the flu, Daryl gets stressed, Glenn doesn't help, and Vjen doesn't notice. And other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude/ettes. I profoundly apologize for my extended absence. Life has been weird and confusing lately. That's really all I've got. If this chappie seems strangely abrupt or stupid in certain places, please be aware I haven't worked on it in a while. Still getting back into the swing of things.
> 
> I love you all. Thanks for reading this random crap that comes out of my head. Beer and cookies for everyone. Mostly beer. I ate the cookies :)

Glenn was standing over Daryl, twisting the bejesus outa his arm and -- so help him -- it was hot. The very thought that _Glenn_ of all people was capable of inflicting pain like that if he wanted to, it was... Jesus.

It was turnin' him on.

It was all manner of fucked up, but it was turnin' him on just the same.

Still though, the pain itself was actually the opposite of hot and Daryl was extremely relieved when the pressure eased. He rolled onto his back with a groan and gazed up at his Asian boy. Glenn was staring down at him intensely, cheeks flushed, breath puffing between his full pink lips.

"Think you can pull this shit for nothin', kid? Giddown here," he ordered.

The kid looked adorably confused but sunk to his knees anyway, obedient even on top, anxious to please even with the upper hand. The thought went straight to Daryl's dick and he reached up to fist Glenn's shirt and yank him down even further, causing the boy to sprawl out on top of him. Daryl shifted him roughly so that one of Glenn's legs was trapped between the two of his, so the kid could feel what all this had been doing to him, while simultaneously pressing a leg up into Glenn's crotch to make his intentions clear.

The responding gasp was almost as satisfying as the bulge that pressed back against his thigh. Almost. Daryl stared up into dark eyes, brown irises nearly swallowed up in the blackness of dilated pupils. Then his gaze dropped to those lips and his arms snaked around Glenn's back, drawing him in closer. He was so skinny. Daryl trailed fingers down his spine almost reverently.

"Glenn," he breathed, voice far too broken sounding for his liking, though he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment.

Glenn just exhaled slowly and his lips hovered over Daryl's. It was going to happen. It was going to fuckin' _happen_. Daryl licked his dry, chapped lips in anticipation as Glenn inched slowly down, oh so slowly, wondrously slowly, just as--

"Hey, buddy. Wake up."

Daryl opened his eyes to see Glenn leaning over him, full pink lips hovering a good foot and a half further away than they were supposed to be. He grabbed the back of Glenn's neck and pulled him in without thinking, still half asleep. Glenn's eyes widened and he placed both hands on Daryl's chest in an aborted move to shove him away.

"Daryl, w-what..."

Reality came crashing down. This was the _real_ Glenn. Oh fuck. He quickly ran his hand up into Glenn's greasy hair and scrubbed it in a harsh and _friendly_ manner. His heart gave an angry thump against his ribs, a helpful reminder that now was as good a time as any to start panicking. His mouth crooked in what he hoped was a roguish grin.

Glenn hadn't actually pushed away though. He was still just kneeling there, leaned over with both hands just resting on Daryl's chest with a stupid, gaping expression that should not have been as attractive as it was.

Strange. He figured Glenn'd be screaming and running for the hills by now.

He quirked a brow. "Problem?" he asked, voice rough with sleep, brazenly ghosting his good fingers down the kid's arm.

"Problem?" Glenn parroted dazedly. "Oh! Uh, no. No problem. But it's, uh, 5:30 and you said to wake you up around now, so..."

Daryl's hand froze. "Do you ever sleep?"

"Insomniac."

"Since when?"

"Birth? Hard to tell."

"Remind me to never trust you with night watch ever again."

Glenn opened his mouth with an angry look on his face, which Daryl took as his cue to leave. He retreated to the main room where Vjen was trying to latch his briefcase, which currently contained three jars that were three inches wider than the case itself. He paused to watch him fail for a couple minutes, just to improve his spirits. Then:

"Howdja bring us back the other day? Been wonderin. Just passed out and then here I was."

Vjen started violently, then straightened. "Ahhh," he said, trying and generally failing to create an aura of mystery. "I can't give away all my secrets, now can I? Suffice to say that levers were involved. Glenn was fairly simple to move, but you, my young friend... You could stand to lose a few pounds. The apocalypse has been far too kind to you."

Daryl glowered darkly. "It's called muscle."

"Of course, of course," said Vjen patronizingly.

The redneck cocked his head and took a menacing half-step forward, hands spread. "You wanna demonstration?"

"That's flattering, but no," Vjen replied, smiling in a distinctly unintimidated manner. "No, I'll leave that for Glenn."

Daryl paused in frustrated confusion, not knowing _how_ the hell to respond to that. He just could never seem to control the conversation with this guy.

"Leave what for me?" asked Glenn as he entered the room at the worst possible moment, watching with bemusement as the tips of Daryl's ears turned pink.

"Nothin," Daryl assured way too fast.

Glenn's eyes narrowed suspiciously and Vjen swiveled around to find a decoy. He still had _some_ semblance of mercy.

"Ehh, this!" He flourished an empty pepperoncini jar and fished out a small deformed pepper from the juice at the bottom. "It's the last one," he said, holding it out temptingly.

"Thanks, but I'm good." Glenn made a face. "Did you really eat the whole jar? I could have sworn that was full ten minutes ago."

"Spicy food is good for the metabolism."

"I'll take your word for it."

Vjen shrugged and bit into the pepper. Juice squirted violently out of a tiny hole near the stem and managed to land in Daryl's left eye.

"Watch it!" Daryl scrubbed at his eye furiously while Glenn snickered. "Blinded m'good eye."

"Don't be a child," said Vjen primly.

Daryl grumbled under his breath and subtly moved behind Glenn. Just in case. Let the punk take the next blast. Glenn, of course, noticed what he was doing and moved in front of him. They flipped around a few times before Vjen finally spoke up.

"I finished eating the pepper ages ago."

"Right," said Daryl authoritatively, trying to rescue some of his dignity. "Pack up, you two. We're sleepin' in Iowa tonight."

"I'm already packed!" said Glenn, waving his backpack in Daryl's face. "Because I'm organized and prepared for the future. Unlike some. By which I mean you."

"Yeah, yeah. Smartass."

"Hey, it's not easy being this awesome and modest."

Daryl viscously smacked the backpack to the floor. A light scuffle ensued.

Moving on.

Since it would be a pretty tight squeeze to fit them all into the pickup, Glenn graciously offered to hotwire a SWEET RIDE for Vjen to follow them in. After an hour of argument, mutual bafflement, some heated words and Daryl threatening them both with his crossbow, Vjen became the proud new owner of a "handsome" Buick LeSabre sporting a "classy" champagne paint job. Glenn protested in his own special way by pretending to vomit violently in the trunk, to the amusement of absolutely no one.

They hit the road. Time passed. The sun arched in the sky like a slow hand-wave from some celestial alien. Then the alien giggled and the truck started hacking up a lung. Daryl pulled off at the next exit and rolled fitfully into the first parking lot, which happened to be a Burger King, with the classy Buick pulling up hesitantly beside them. Dark smoke puffed out from under the Ford's hood.

"Guess we need a new car," Glenn commented.

The redneck shot him the most hateful look Glenn had ever seen, and he shrunk back, cowering into his seat.

"I'm not leaving Nellie," Daryl ground out with surprising seriousness. "She's family."

"Oh. Great." Glenn slouched further with a different emotion, not questioning Daryl's statement. Sounded like the truck may have belonged to his brother. He could understand that. "So we're stuck here in Bumblefuck, Iowa."

"It's bumfuck."

Glenn turned to give him a supremely wigged out look. "What?"

"The word." Daryl shifted uncomfortably. "It's bumfu-- nevermind. We're not stuck anyhow. We're delayed."

"Yeah, indefinitely. In other words, _stuck."_

"Shutcher mouth. I know cars, so we won't be here long. Sides, I thought you were the positive, sunshine-shoots-outta-my-ass type? Th'hell happened to that?"

"Sorry," Glenn frowned. "I just... wanna _be_ there. In Sioux Falls. Like yesterday. The waiting is hard."

Daryl scowled even more, apparently quite stressed by Nellie's illness. "You think I'm not _trying?_ What the fuck do you even _want_ from me, you--"

The redneck was cut off by a loud rapping on his window. He looked over angrily to see Vjen wave and happily motion for him to roll down the window.

He complied. _"What?"_

"Great idea! I'm famished! However, I think we can both agree the odds are rather low that this establishment has anything remotely ingestible remaining."

Daryl stared at him, knuckles whitening on the wheel.

Vjen stared back with a beaming smile.

Glenn became filled with dread.

Daryl's good eye began to twitch.

"Pepperoncini?" Vjen asked, pulling one out of his pocket and thrusting it into Daryl's face.

Daryl's elbow pulled back to punch Vjen in the fucking face and Glenn grabbed it. He sprawled over the older man's right side and began friggin _petting_ him. Anything to try to dissolve the tension.

"We're having a slight vehicular malfunction. Nothing serious, but why don't you wait in your car for a bit, Vjen? Daryl and I were having a bit of a... serious discussion." He kept his voice flat but waggled his eyebrows for effect, eternally thankful that Daryl couldn't see it from his angle.

Vjen stepped back with a knowing look of fond amusement, completely unaware that Daryl had been about to smash his face in. "Oh, don't mind me," he said with a wink. "You two take as long as you need to 'discuss' your 'malfunction'." Another amused look and he climbed back into the Buick, pulling a book out of a bag on the passenger seat and apparently falling into it without another thought.

Glenn sighed in relief and then froze as he realized he was, yes, _draped_ over Daryl who was, by the way, staring at him intently. Awkwaaard. He averted his gaze and retracted his limbs to an appropriate distance.

"So, uh, what's wrong with Nellie?" he asked, determined to pretend as if nothing weird had just happened.

Daryl continued to stare him the fuck down. "Definitely the cooling system. Could be a radiator leak. No biggie, I'll fix it."

"That's, uh, great! Well, I'll just... go with Vjen and secure the building while you... fix things."

Glenn wrenched the door open and rushed to the Buick, unaware that Daryl's repressed predatory gaze tracked him the whole way.

There were only two walkers inside the burger joint, both bloated and slow from recent meals and easy to dispatch. One had been wearing a work visor that Vjen claimed immediately, to Glenn's silent disgust. He expressed this by kicking the walker that originally sported it with extra enthusiasm when he was pushing them outside. Vjen was right, though. There was no food. There was, however, a plethora of cooking tools and an odd squeaking sound coming from the kitchen...

Daryl entered after a couple of hours. "Nellie's fine," he declared loudly, with badly hidden pride. "Temp gauge was fucked up. She was just low on coolant." He sauntered arrogantly into the kitchen and leaned over to sniff the simmering pot. "Ugh. What is that?"

Glenn perked up, rather proud. "Rat stew. Protein!"

"I'd rather have a shit sandwich, minus the bread."

"Oh goodie," Glenn replied flatly. "More for us. Vjen!"

Vjen walked up and stopped short, eying the proffered dish in alarm. "Oh my! Are you ill? I told you not to eat that Snickers bar."

Daryl sniggered as Glenn bristled and said, "It's not puke. It's dinner."

"Ah. Right then." Vjen accepted the dish gravely.

After Vjen shared the "medicinal" scotch he had hidden in his briefcase, Daryl shared that they were dangerously low on gas. He also attempted to build a fire. In the middle of the restaurant. While drunk. A few burns and a lot of swear words later, a fire merrily burned through grease and a stack of French fry cartons on a metal pan. Glenn was too far gone to think there was anything strange about this. Vjen had a unique definition of strange to begin with. In the end, they all basked in its bone-warming familiarity with feelings of relief and pleasure.

Vjen sighed nostalgically, staring vacantly into the fire, and broke the silence first. "It's on cold nights like this that I miss my sweet Moira the most," he muttered under his breath, barely audible. "Her laughter...her warmth...her scent..." He closed his eyes dreamily. "Her touch..."

"Whoa, old timer," Daryl interrupted a tad too loudly. "Too much info."

Vjen looked vaguely affronted. "I was talking to myself. Quit eavesdropping!"

Daryl stared at him, unimpressed. "Sooo you're talkin' to yourself like a drunk hobo, but I'm in the wrong here."

"Will both of you shut up?" Glenn interrupted. "Daryl, you better get going if you want to fill up before dark. I'd come with but, you know, _I'm useless."_

Daryl ignored the bait, shook his head and wobbled to his feet, thrusting his empty glass in Glenn's face. "Alright man, gimme one fer the ditch."

"No way, dude! No ditches. Haven't these past couple of days been shitty enough already?" He sighed deeply and stared out blankly. "Worst days of my life, man."

Daryl tried to scoff and snort at the same time and seemed mildly startled at the result. "Way I see it, walk in a pasture long enough and you're bound to step in shit."

Then he snatched the bottle, slammed into the Ford pickup and rattled away, leaving Glenn totally bewildered.

"Wait. What?"

"I believe what our friend was attempting to communicate is the concept that good luck can only last for so long. I think. Rather rustically poetic, isn't he? Though I must disagree with his choice of using that fact as sufficient reason to indulge in risky behavior."

All Glenn could do was gape and wish Daryl hadn't taken the bottle with him.

 

* * *

 


	19. Flight of the Valkyrie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which: Glenn and Daryl both go a little crazy in their own ways and Vjen hatches a plan.

"La mula deee Parenzooo! L'ha messo suuu botegaaa!" Vjen belted out in a deep, vibratic baritone voice. "DE TUTO LAAAA VENDEVAAAA! Fora che 'l baccalà! Perche non m'AAAmi piuuuu?!" He wiped a small tear from his eye and sighed nostalgically.

"What's that song about?" Glenn asked curiously, placing another piece of wood on the block.

"It's a traditional folk song my mother taught me about the whore from Parenzo! A lovely tune."

"I see. That's...really nice."

"Would you like to hear another? It's about a hunchback family, and one of my personal favorites." He cleared his throat and began without waiting for a response. "Gobbo suo padre! Gobba sua madre! Gobba la figlia della sorellaaa! Era gobba anche--"

 _"Shut the fuck up!"_ hissed Daryl from Glenn's back pocket. _"You wan' every walker in the county t'hear you?"_

"A bit of culture never goes amiss, lad," replied Vjen stiffly.

_"Tell that to them when they're eatin' your ass."_

"How could you hear me anyway? Oh and hello, Daryl!"

_"Glenn forgot to flip the switch. Again. I'm tryin' to hunt, so if we're goin' use these things for emergencies, either remember to turn it off or shut the hell up. You're scarin' all the game away."_

Glenn surreptitiously reached into his pocket and switched it off before moving his hands back to hold the wood in place. "I don't know what he's talking about. Mine's off, he must have turned his on by mistake or something."

Vjen shrugged and slammed the wood axe down, missing Glenn's hands by centimeters.

"OKAY!" Glenn yelped. "How about I chop for a while?! I'm sure you could use a break!"

There was a bleep from Glenn's back pocket. He checked the radio display.

_[14:37:25] DARYL: your stupid_

He snorted and typed back a swift reply.

_[14:37:41] GLENN: you're ugly and you smell like ass_  
 _[14:38:12] DARYL: ill be back in two hours_  
 _[14:38:24] GLENN: good. I think Vjens trying to kill me_  
 _[14:38:46] DARYL: be back in 10_  
 _[14:38:57] GLENN: I was jk_  
 _[14:40:44] GLENN: Daryl?_

"Well, shit."

"Problem?" Vjen asked mildly, pausing in mid swing, ax held high above his head.

"I think we've got enough wood there, buddy. What do you say we head back? Daryl's coming back early anyway."

Vjen shrugged and picked up an armload of wood. "Did he mention why?"

"Nope."

They dumped the wood on one of the tables back at base camp just as Daryl roared into the parking lot, slammed the truck door viscously shut, wrenched the building door viscously open, and stalked viscously towards Vjen. Glenn sprinted over to him and tugged on his arm. Daryl just pulled him along behind him.

"Daryl, freaking stop. I need to talk to you." No change. Vjen looked up at them both with a pleasant smile. _"Please."_

Daryl stopped, looked back at him over his shoulder. "This ain't over," he bit out at Vjen, whose smile faltered the tiniest bit.

"Come _on_ , Daryl."

The hunter allowed himself to be dragged into the kitchen, where Glenn rounded on him angrily.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

Daryl frowned for a moment, confidence slipping into visible unsurety, before he wrapped it back around himself like a security blanket. "You said he threatened you," he hissed back, doing that hunched, looming thing again. He looked pretty threatening himself, actually.

Luckily, Glenn knew better. "I said I was _joking_ , you idiot. Did you even bother to check your radio?"

"Sure I did! You never said that!"

Glenn reached around to tug Daryl's radio out of his back pocket. Daryl looked incredibly unsure again, before the expression was gone and he looked more pissed off than ever. He waited and shifted his feet as Glenn messed with his radio.

"See?!" Glenn said triumphantly, flourishing the device in Daryl's face.

Daryl growled and snatched it back. "See what?"

"I said, 'I was jk.'"

"So?"

"Jk? Just kidding? See the pattern there?" Sarcasm dripped acidically from his voice.

"How the fuck was I supposed to know that?"

"Because _everyone_ knows? Jesus, Daryl. What rock did you live under?"

Daryl looked abnormally chagrined. "Well, I didn't know... I was just worried aboutcha," he muttered huskily under his breath, examining his shoes.

Shit, now Glenn felt like a douche. Really, Daryl had come all this way at the slightest hint that he was being threatened. That was actually superbly, ridiculously nice of him. Glenn couldn't help but be touched. He'd better fix this.

"You're right, sorry for being so angry. I appreciate the concern," he said with a face-splitting grin. "You're a pal!" Before he could think better of it, he gripped the side of the redneck's head, pulled it towards him, and planted a big ol' smackaroo on the stubbled cheek. Then he leaned back and squinted an eye, smacking and puffing his lips a bit at the weird sandpapery texture. Strange, he wasn't getting beaten up or yelled at yet. He chanced a glance back over to Daryl, tongue pausing in its journey as it swept across his upper lip.

Instead of furious, the grungy man looked frozen in place, eyes comically wide, a flush beginning to creep up his neck and flirting with the idea of taking up permanent residence in his face. He stared at Glenn. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again and froze along with the rest of his body. Then Daryl's face abruptly turned beet red and his mouth shut with a snap as he spun on his heel and walked away with calm, measured steps.

Huh. Glenn remained where he was, feeling eternally confused, which seemed to be happening way too often lately. It was starting to really piss him off. It was almost like Daryl... But no, that was silly. Ridiculous. He'd never in a million years... No, of course not. Crazy. There had to be another explanation. Glenn was just about to go after the other man and demand said explanation, just for the sake of his own sanity, when he heard the distinct sound of Nellie's door slamming shut and the truck grinding away.

He just...left? What the hell, man. What bug crawled up _his_ ass?

"Glenn, a word?" asked Vjen from behind him.

"Yeah, what's up," he replied, turning around and rubbing the back of his neck wearily.

"I've been thinking about our options once we reach this Sioux Falls place. There is a strong chance that the entire complex will be infested with...hungry people." He cleared his throat. "It seems prudent therefore to devise a method of clearing buildings from afar, without putting ourselves in danger."

"Well sure, Vjen. I mean that sounds _great_ and all, but how the hell would we do that?"

"If we can somehow lure them out and into a confined area, such as a cargo shipping container or cement outbuilding, I believe I may have the solution."

Glenn waited. The old man just stared at him. Glenn rolled his eyes. "Which _is?"_

"Here. Take a look at my notes. There are some helpful diagrams on the last page."

Glenn took the stack of papers and squinted as he tried to read Vjen's chicken scratch handwriting, skipping the page of chemical formulas and equations entirely. He'd always been good with math, but chemistry was never his strong suit. Unless it involved luminescence or explosives, it never could hold his interest. Still, his rudimentary knowledge and the detailed illustrations allowed him to grasp the essence of Vjen's plan.

"There's a lot of 'ifs' in here, Vjen," he commented, still scanning the pages. "A lot of 'maybes'. It's also pretty dramatic. But then, who am I to talk?"

"You approve then? Shall we tell Daryl and begin preparations?"

Glenn nodded. "Yeah, but I think in this step here," he pointed to an item on the first page, "that a remote controlled car would work better than..." He squinted to read it. "'A trained fox.' I mean, a trained fox? Really? You're as bad as those guys who tried to put torpedoes on dolphins."

"I admit it was a bit farfetched, but I was confident that your input would improve my plan and it appears I was correct."

Glenn puffed up smugly. "Right. Well, looks like the most important things on here are the hardest to get. Hazmat suits."

"Specifically Level A suits, the gastight variation," Vjen added hastily. "Level B merely provides splash protection and won't be of any use to us."

"How can we tell the difference?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Vjen admitted. "We'll need to investigate the area in which we find them to determine which type they have in stock."

"You know," said Glenn thoughtfully. "I think there were some hazmat suits in the fire station Daryl and I stopped at the other day."

"Likely Levels B or C, son. From what I understand, gastight suits are quite expensive and required only in extreme circumstances. The best place to check first would be a lab researching highly radioactive substances, or biological or chemical weapons. Or," he added offhandedly, "some kind of military installation, I suppose, for training purposes."

"You mean like that national guard base across the street?" Glenn pointed out the window.

Vjen followed his hand. "Ah... Quite so."

"I'll grab Timmy and check it out," he said, grabbing his plastic pet and heading towards the door.

Vjen scrambled after him, alarm clearly written all over his face. "Do you really think that's wise? It's probably extremely dangerous! Wait here for your friend!"

"Don't worry. I won't go in myself, I'll just send in Timmy to see what we're up against. A bit of reconnaissance. Like Delta Force!" he blurted out randomly, suddenly far too excited by the idea. "Only, you know, from the bushes outside." He grabbed one of Vjen's black socks that had been drying next to the fire and tied it around his forehead. Then he paused and dragged two fingers through the soot and smeared it under his eyes. "Like a ninja warrior." He struck a noble pose, eyes blazing with duty and courage in the face of overwhelming odds, breaking the pose for a moment when he noticed some soot on Timmy. He carefully wiped him off on his shirt.

Vjen waved his arms helplessly. "But, but!"

"I do what I must. For queen and country. For the motherland. For _freedom_." He gazed regally into the distance, which happened to be a painting of fruit ten feet away.

"What in _heavens name_ are you going on about?! Wipe that dirt off your face and come back this instant! And give me back my sock! You can't have it, I _need_ that!"

"I'm sorry, Vjen. It's been called to serve a greater purpose. Do not weep for me!" he declared majestically. "For if I should fail in this grand venture, my heroic actions will live on after me in glorious--" He broke off as he realized with a start that Vjen really did look close to tears. "I'm just kidding Vjen. I'm not going inside, really. Just the drone. If I see one walker, I'll come straight back. But I, uh, would like to keep the sock," he added. "You'll get it back in like half an hour anyway."

Vjen sniffled. "Alright, if you must. I just don't understand you young people. Be careful, Glenn. I'm very fond of you boys. And I don't want to imagine what Daryl would do to me if I let anything happen to you."

"You don't have to, because nothing is going to happen. I'll be right back." And with that, he left.

Vjen locked the door and stared after him mournfully, like a basset hound.

Glenn ignored him and skulked stealthily across the street, pausing every so often and scanning the area for suspicious sounds or movements. The national guard base was surrounded by a tall, spiked iron fence, rendered useless by the fact that the gate was wide open. He scuttled inside. The gravel lot beside the building was empty, deep indentations showing that all the vehicles previously parked here were long gone. Taken by soldiers? Looters? Who knew? Who cared. The bay doors were all shut, with no windows on that side of the building.

He made his way around to the front and squatted behind some convenient bushes near the fence, squinting as he scanned the windows. He really needed to invest in some binoculars. His head swiveled as his eyes swept down to the far side and _there_. A broken window, second floor, adjacent to the front doors. Perfect.

He pulled out the remote and Timmy rose to life in front of him. "Be brave, soldier. It's the moment of reckoning. Your mission is to seek out any signs of life and report back to me ASAP," he whispered quietly. "Move out."

He played _Flight of the Valkyrie_ in his head as little Timmy flew across the lawn, lights blinking, buzzing, droning, in a way that Glenn found frankly adorable. Timmy ascended valiantly to the second floor, not put off by little things like gravity in the slightest. Look at him go! Boy, was this fun. It probably shouldn't be this fun. Glenn maneuvered through the window (quite adeptly, truth be told) and switched on infrared.

It was a bare room holding only a desk, a chair, and a few boxes. The door was closed. Glenn gritted his teeth and hissed. God _damn_ it! He turned around to leave and noticed with surprise that there was a huge hole in the floor, almost a perfect circle, as if someone had cut it on purpose. That was...really weird, actually, but he wasn't going to complain. He descended into what he assumed was the hallway directly in front of the main entrance. Yes, there were the main doors behind him. He turned and buzzed happily down the corridor.

Suddenly, there was a flash of movement from the right, moving _towards_ him. His heart thudded as he banked fiercely up and to the left, spinning around to see what the hell that was, suddenly wishing desperately that Timmy came with audio. Maybe he would add that in somehow, couldn't be that hard.

There was nothing there. He looked left, right, up, down... There was a plaque on the floor. He looked up at where the movement originated and saw a row of plaques sitting on a shelf. Maybe this one had been sitting precariously on the edge and the slight wind Timmy generated had pushed it the rest of the way off.

He needed to be more careful.

He peeked cautiously through the open doorway at the end. It seemed to be a big rec room of sorts. Some kind of a training room maybe? He turned slowly to scan the room, but didn't see any kind of movement. Slowly, just in case, he made Timmy edge into the room. Still nothing. He edged more, a bit faster, until he reached the very center and initiated a gradual 360° turn. It seemed empty, no harm in going a bit deeper into the building. He had nearly completed the revolution when the image jolted diagonally on the screen and went black.

He blinked. His hands shook.

What the fuck?

Did he remember to charge him last night? He wracked his brain desperately, but all he could come up with was _yes_ , he had charged him. But that room had been empty, he saw it. Maybe there was an issue with the charger he'd made. But what? He'd done everything correctly! Damn it. At least Timmy fell pretty close to the entrance. He could probably sneak in to retrieve him with no problems. Damn it _again_ , this sucked.

Glenn sighed and stood up, hunching over and making his way carefully to the entrance. His back pocket beeped at him angrily.

_[15:01:82] DARYL: come back. now_  
 _[15:01:91] GLENN: Timmy is stuck_  
 _[15:02:05] DARYL: don't care_  
 _[15:02:13] GLENN: near the entrance_  
 _[15:02:22] DARYL: too dangerous. wait for me_  
 _[15:02:34] GLENN: Timmy said it's empty and I have to get him back anyway_  
 _[15:02:47] DARYL: like I give a fuck about your toy_  
 _[15:02:49] DARYL: I said no_  
 _[15:03:03] GLENN: just gimme like 5 min_  
 _[15:03:06] DARYL: NO_  
 _[15:03:09] GLENN: -_-_  
 _[15:03:15] GLENN: *knocks over chessboard, craps on chess pieces and flies away*_  
 _[15:03:17] GLENN: I won this debate!!_  
 _[15:03:21] DARYL: FUCK YOU_  
 _[15:03:30] GLENN: aww I love you too. don't worry I'll be careful_  
 _[15:03:33] DARYL: SHUT UP_  
 _[15:03:42] DARYL: you better come back in one piece you lil fucker_  
 _[15:03:46] DARYL: you hear me_  
 _[15:03:52] DARYL: if you don't I will BEAT YOUR ASS INTO THE GROUND_  
 _[15:04:03] GLENN: yeah whatever. your posthumous threat is duly noted_  
 _[15:04:09] DARYL: you think this a damn joke_  
 _[15:04:18] GLENN: posthumous not humorous. look nm man brb_

Glenn walked to the double doors at the entrance, gripped the handle and paused. He let out a slow exhale and tried to center himself, tried to focus before poking his head into the potential hornets nest. He really thought he charged him. His radio bleeped again.

_[15:06:35] DARYL: glenn don't go_  
 _[15:06:41] DARYL: seriosly wait fr me well both get yur stupid chopper cam_

Damnit. Timmy wasn't stupid. And it wasn't that dangerous.

_[15:07:56] DARYL: please_

He stared blankly at the radio.

_[15:08:21] GLENN: okay_

He opened the doors and went in.

 

* * *

 

**AKA "Timmy the Drone's Theme Song"**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit guys, I just learned you can buy Timmy for only $150!! The price dropped over $100 since I started writing this!
> 
> **hyperventilates and explodes**
> 
> I'M BUYING HIM!!!  
> ＼＼\ ٩(๑❛ワ❛๑)و //／／

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Daisy Nukem and Astroboy (Doodles)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938732) by [kai_152](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kai_152/pseuds/kai_152), [UndeadSpacewalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndeadSpacewalker/pseuds/UndeadSpacewalker)




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